Intoxicate the Sun
by Lomonaaeren
Summary: HPDM slash. Harry starts a revolution. And Draco is a spy wondering if he should betray Potter for his parents, or the other way around. COMPLETE.
1. Before the Wall

**Title: **Intoxicate the Sun

**Disclaimer: **J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters; I am writing this for fun and not profit.

**Warnings: **Violence (lots of it), heavy angst, sex, references to torture and rape. Ignores the epilogue.

**Pairings: **Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione, possibly other minor pairings that might crop up along the way.

**Rating: **R

**Summary: **Harry starts a revolution. A revolution with spies, disaffected Aurors, dragons, Azkaban escapees, joke shop owners turned war strategists, and magical theories. And Draco Malfoy is one of the spies-deciding whether he should betray Potter for the sake of his parents, or the other way around.

**Author's Notes: **This will be a long story, and at this point I don't know how many chapters it's likely to cover. A lot of the chapters include politics and philosophy as well as action, so be warned.

**Intoxicate the Sun**

_Chapter One-Before the Wall_

"_Fuck!_"

Ron ducked as Harry hurled the paperweight that the Ministry had given him on the fourth anniversary of Voldemort's death at the wall. It was glass, and it broke, and Harry had to draw his wand to shield Ron from the flying pieces. He didn't bother shielding himself. At the moment, he felt like a little blood.

Ron came slowly up on the opposite side of the desk, gaping at him. "Are you all right, mate?"

Harry sat down in his chair and shook his head. It took several moments of champing his teeth before he could speak. "The Ministry isn't admitting our evidence in the Donner trial," he said.

"_What_?" Ron rocked forwards on his heels, staring. "But they _have _to! We have a signed confession!"

"Apparently, it was all 'a misunderstanding,'" Harry said, shaping the words with his fingers. "Imperius. Some never-heard-of mind control potion that just happens to inspire pure-bloods to target Muggleborns. The woman he raped deserved it. And so on." He stared at the far wall.

"Um, mate," Ron pointed out. "Your sleeve's on fire."

"What?" Harry looked down. Yes, his magic was causing bright scarlet flames to jump over his wrist and drip on the desk. He dismissed them by clenching his fingers and picked up a napkin left over from lunch to pat the singed sleeve. Ron cleared his throat and shifted in his seat.

"It's shite," he said. "But you know what a smug bastard Foresby is. There's no way that he'll hold himself back from bragging or doing it again. That time, we'll have him."

"It's the pattern that worries me," Harry said. He looked back at Ron in time to see him wincing, and only then realized the air around them was superheating. He sighed and took a few tranquilizing breaths, trying to get rid of the wild magic. "Sorry."

"Pattern?" Ron raised his eyebrows at him. "You sound like Hermione."

"There are worse things," Harry said. "Sometimes," he corrected himself, when Ron rolled his eyes a bit. "But I'm talking about the pattern of all these Death Eaters being let off when they commit crimes against Muggleborns."

Ron frowned and cocked his head. "I don't think Foresby was ever a Death Eater."

"Pure-bloods, then." Harry kicked the bottom of the desk and curled his hand down, hard, on the flame that was growing from the center of his palm. "They're acquitted. Always."

Ron's frown deepened. "I think there was one that was committed to Azkaban for three months a year ago. Trueworth? I think that was his name."

"One," Harry said. "He's the only one. I remember him because of that. Three months for _murder_, Ron."

Ron shifted. "No one could ever prove it was murder."

"Meanwhile," Harry continued, feeling the choking sensation build up in his throat and hearing it in his voice too, "there's sure to be a conviction every time it was a Muggleborn acting against a pure-blood. And even for minor crimes. Three years in Azkaban for stealing a piece of cloth! The only reason that one got upheld is because that pure-blood family ultimately owns Gladrags."

Ron nodded. "I see what you mean, and yeah, it's disturbing, but what can we do, mate? Even your name doesn't make any difference."

Harry clenched his hands together. That way, there was at least the chance that they would do less damage to the desktop. "I know that," he whispered. "It feels like we're battering our heads against a brick wall and making no difference, Ron. Not my name, not our determination, not Kingsley's appointment after the war, not common sense. Nothing makes any difference. It's still the people with the money and the influence who buy their way out of trouble, and still the ones who were born into the wrong families that get sentenced. And it's getting _worse_," he added, before Ron could open his mouth. "Oh, I know the Ministry's always been corrupt, but they barely hide it anymore. The public just accepts it. Everyone's so eager to forget about the war and the divisions between pure-bloods and Muggleborns that they pretend the pure-bloods' persecution of them is normal. Which allows anyone who cares to ignore the ignoring get away with whatever he wants to."

"I think Hermione would be really impressed that you used proper grammar all the way through those sentences, mate."

Harry snapped his head around and glared at Ron. "What's the matter, Ron? Don't you _care _about this?"

"I do," Ron said quietly, with a glitter in his eyes that told Harry Ron's indifference was only a mask. "But I don't see what we can _do _about it. That's the way the system is, mate. And sometimes we do a bit of good. I'd rather stay here and do that then go about outside it, where we'll have less chance than ever to help people."

Harry opened his mouth, and then shut it again. Ron was right, and the thought made the last of the flames die inside him. Exactly what were they supposed to do? If they tried to hunt down pure-bloods who had hurt Muggleborns, then they would be vigilantes. If they tried to ensure justice for everyone, then people would mock them for not being part of the Wizengamot, and no one would have a reason to listen. If they tried to change people's attitudes, then they would just run headlong into the wall of boredom and refusal to listen that had made up everyone's responses to these cases so far.

But remaining still and watching in silence as justice was abused made everything worse.

"I want to do more than this," Harry whispered, lowering his hands to the desktop and resting his chin on top of them.

"I know, mate." Ron's hand on his shoulder was steady and reassuring, and at least showed Harry that he had friends he could count on, even if the rest of the world seemed to be decaying and rotting around him. "I know."

* * *

When Hermione came to dinner that night, Harry knew something was wrong before she stepped out of the Floo.

"_Bloody _bastards," she said, stubbing her toe on the edge of the hearth and staggering into Harry's drawing room. Harry didn't think she was talking about his bricks, painful though they might be.

"What happened?" Harry poured the wine he'd readied into the three glasses standing on the table, then paused and nudged Hermione's a bit further from Ron's. She didn't lose control of her magic like he did, but she did sometimes wave her arms around.

"They forbade me to do any more research on house-elves," Hermione said, slamming the enormous stack of papers and folders she carried onto the table. Only a quick dive from Harry saved the glasses. "_Forbade. _They said that I wouldn't be employed in Magical Creatures anymore unless I agreed." She planted her hands on her hips, eyes so bright that Harry wondered if she was going to cry. "I don't understand it, Harry," she whispered. "There was more idealism after the war than this. I _know _there was. What happened?"

"Duplais happened," Harry said grimly.

Hermione paused and stared at him. "Harry," she murmured at last, "you can't blame all of the Ministry's ills on the Minister. He's a Muggleborn."

"He's a bastard."

"I'll be very upset if you're insulting my parents," Ron said, coming out of the bathroom.

"We're talking about Duplais," Harry said, turning towards him.

Ron didn't disappoint. "Right," he said, with a nod. "In that case, the only mistake you're making is that your words aren't strong enough." He reached over, picked up his glass of wine, and took a long swallow. Hermione didn't look as though she knew whether to be more distressed about that or about Ron agreeing with Harry.

"He didn't cause everything," she said. "Corrupt factions might have elected him, but he's not responsible for the way the Wizengamot votes, or for the tradition that says pure-bloods matter more than Muggleborns."

Harry shook his head. "I've noticed the patterns," he said, causing Ron briefly to look as if he was strangling. "Once he came into office, the pattern of judgment that was established under Kingsley's leadership reversed itself. A bunch of Death Eater convictions were overturned. There was even talk of releasing the Malfoys."

"I wouldn't have thought you would be upset if Narcissa Malfoy was released," Hermione said, sitting down hard in her chair.

Harry folded his arms. This was an old argument. "She insisted that she had done everything her husband had done, and nothing else," he said. "When I stood up in front of the courtroom and told them that she lied to Voldemort for me, she said I must be mistaken, because Lucius hadn't done that. What, should I have told them that she was lying and rescued her against her will when she was so determined to share his fate? Anyway, I let them see my memories and they still condemned her," he added, voice sinking. He could see the way Narcissa Malfoy's face had shone on that day, and her smile, in ways he didn't understand, as if it was _thrilling _to see her freedom being thrown away right before her eyes. He could still see them whenever he wanted, come to that.

"Even Lucius," Hermione said.

Ron cut in. "The Wizengamot started deciding that any case involving a pure-blood as the defendant wasn't worth hearing, or that the evidence wasn't 'convincing,' somehow. And when we went and talked to Duplais about the restrictions on our Department, he smiled and said that we should get used to it, that more were coming down. The Aurors had been too free with spells during the war, he said. Innocent people who didn't deserve it got cursed in the back."

"Well, that did happen," said Hermione.

Ron rolled his eyes at Harry over her head. Harry nodded back. Hermione's tendency to be relentlessly logical wasn't always a good thing.

"Because they were working for Voldemort, or the Death Eaters," Harry said. "That can't be a hard distinction if even _I _managed to grasp it."

Hermione looked earnestly at him. "I wish that you wouldn't put yourself down like that, Harry," she murmured. "I don't think it's good for you."

Harry refrained from rolling his eyes with an effort, and said, "It's something simple, something that any bloke who wants to become Minister should understand. And he has to understand, too, that this can't go on forever. Someone's going to snap and start something soon." He picked up his glass and sipped his wine, trying to control the urge to gulp it. That would do his temper and his stomach no good.

"That's what I don't see," Ron added softly, "the deliberate turning away from things that ought to be simple. I just-who told them they could do that? What happened to the Order of the Phoenix and the people who stood up and fought during the war? I know why Kingsley wasn't elected again, Duplais just talked too well, but I don't know what took everyone's _courage _away."

"It never was a lot of people who fought during the war," Hermione said gently. "Not that many people were involved in the Battle of Hogwarts, for that matter, and most of the ones outside it ran from the Snatchers, or hid, or did as they were told because they knew what would happen if they didn't. I think what they want more than anything else is a normal life back. And here's someone telling them they can have both peace and safety if they turn their heads away from a few nonsense convictions and acquittals. It's tempting, don't you think? Especially since they're so prone to believe that _they'll _never get in trouble, that being locked up in Azkaban happens to all those other people, and only the ones who deserve it."

A gloomy silence fell on the table. Ron stared at his hands. Hermione stared into the distance, toying with the stem of her wineglass. Harry looked from one to the other of them and felt as if the wine had caught fire in his gut.

"Someone has to do something," he said. "Someone _should _do something."

"But becoming outlaws means no one listens to us," Ron said wearily. "We had that discussion before, Harry."

Harry shook his head, although he tried to smile so that Ron would understand it wasn't basic disagreement with the idea. "Someone should do something," he repeated.

Kreacher and Winky came in with the meal then, and Harry tried to cheer up and turn his mind to other things.

* * *

Hermione ate the very good chicken salad that Winky and Kreacher had prepared in silence, listening as Harry and Ron discussed their current cases. Or rather, Ron discussed the current cases. Harry just listened, his eyes flashing now and then. The most he gave were affirmative grunts when Ron mentioned suspicions he had or tactics he thought they should use in the next investigation.

She found Ron's hand under the table and squeezed it, rubbing their wedding rings together. Ron beamed back at her as he always did, his face softening before he turned to the conversation with Harry again.

Hermione shook her head slowly. Harry was right. Someone should do something, if only to stop the corruption that Hermione could see spreading steadily through the Ministry.

_Someone_. But she was not at all convinced that that person was Harry. Let him rest from his wars.

* * *

Harry paused outside the Minister's door and once again ran over the words that he was going to speak in his mind. He could feel Hermione's doubtful gaze on the back of his neck. She had come along with him under protest, and then only when Harry flattered her and said that he needed someone who could make him look good if he spoke irrationally, which of course he would.

_You can't lose your temper, _he reminded himself. _Burning down the Minister's office won't look good in the press._

When he knocked, he heard Duplais's uninterested voice commanding them to come in. Harry looked back at Hermione once. She nodded to him, and Harry opened the door so that he could usher her just in ahead of him.

Minister of Magic Jacques Duplais stood by the enchanted window in the back of his office, considering the bleak, rainy view it currently showed. Harry could see that his dark hair had been recently cut again, and that his black robes looked like they'd never been folded. He thought about the money that was probably being spent on shit like that while every attempt to mount an investigation into the Wizengamot stalled, and clenched his fists down at his sides.

Hermione glared at him, then said, "Minister Duplais? We'd like to speak with you."

He turned around. As always, Harry felt something like a cold shock when those green eyes met his. Duplais was the only other person he'd ever met who had eyes like him, or like his mother.

"Yes, what is it?" Duplais asked, in the calm, ordinary voice that made Harry's shoulders tense anyway. "I only have a bit of time this morning. The Andorran delegation is coming in, and they need me."

"_Britain _needs you," Harry said, and felt the heat singe his fingernails from inside his palms. Hermione gave him a warning glance that did nothing to calm him down. Duplais had smoothly stepped past all the shit that might have stuck to him thus far. Well, Harry was determined that he wasn't going to do it this time. "We had a signed confession yesterday, sir. Reginald Foresby raped and tortured Lydia Donner. And the Wizengamot dismissed it with claims that he must have been under Imperius, although no trace of Imperius was recorded on him."

Duplais studied him without answering. Harry tried to wait, but he could feel the spiral of heat grabbing his heart, making its beat stutter. Why should pure-bloods be allowed to get away with everything just because some of them _hadn't _been on the wrong side during the war? There were plenty of Muggleborns who hadn't been, either, but the Wizengamot had shown no hesitation in condemning those they thought they could get away with condemning.

"There is a reason that you didn't become Minister, Potter," Duplais said at last. "You don't understand the way the world works. The Minister is not the personal slave of every citizen who needs him, in the way that you would have tried to make me. I will address the issues that you think are so dear to you and only you, but _eventually. _Your impatience will cause more harm than good."

"There's no time for Donner," Harry snapped. "Would you say that to her, Minister? Would you tell her that she'll just have to wait for her turn at justice, because it's more important to give a self-important pure-blood every benefit of the doubt, even when he proved that he didn't _need _it? Oh, excuse me," he added, although he could feel Hermione's hand, heavy as a chain, on his elbow. "A self-important pure-blood who donates to the Ministry."

"_Harry_," Hermione hissed in his ear, but Harry felt free to ignore her. His heart was going like a hammer, and his ears ached with its pounding, and he couldn't take his eyes from Duplais, who gave him a small, weary smile.

"And in your words, I can hear the other side of the madness that took over our world," Duplais murmured. "For someone who has pure-blood friends himself, and who supposedly fought to free all of us, no matter our blood status, you seem terribly willing to succumb to this prejudice, Mr. Potter. Should someone be denied a fair trial just because he's pure-blood? Should someone be worth less because he considers the Ministry a suitable cause for donation? I regret to say that I do not share your ill-informed and ignorant judgments."

Harry wanted to claw the walls. The bastard was twisting his words. Harry didn't know how, but something reasonable and just, that Foresby should be tried for the Donner case, was getting mixed up in whether Harry had these feelings or not, as if _that _was important.

"The Wizengamot didn't give him a fair trial," Harry said. "They didn't give him _any _trial. You're essentially saying that the torture of a Muggleborn citizen doesn't matter, Minister. You're saying that rape doesn't matter, as long as it's committed against the 'wrong' sort of women. Why should anyone who's Muggleborn believe you when you say that justice will be done? Why should they trust the Wizengamot? And why should any pure-blood hold back, when they believe that they could get away with exercising their _own _blood prejudice if they want to?"

"You hold to a very dark view of human nature indeed, Mr. Potter," Duplais said, and his eyebrows rose. "I'm sad to see it. I had thought a hero would be less cynical. I believe that most of our citizens will do right because of their own inherent goodness, not because they are terrified of the draconian laws that you want me to enact and enforce. Stay around in this world a bit longer, and you'll see some of the things that don't make sense, that don't fit into the neat little boxes of blood prejudice. Murderous Muggleborns. Pure-bloods who don't care for those beneath them but don't try to hurt others. Half-bloods who are worse than either." He sighed and turned back to his desk, seeming to estimate the importance of paperwork there with an expert eye. "And that is all the time I can afford you today, I think. Perhaps I could give you longer if you were less angry."

Harry opened his mouth to say something. He never knew what it would have been, because Hermione leaned back and said with calm determination, "I can't help noticing, sir, that you keep addressing Harry as Mr. Potter instead of Auror Potter."

"I do, don't I?" The Minister smiled at her and then nodded sadly at Harry. "I daresay that you'll hear the news later today. I might as well tell you now, since you're here. You are relieved of your Auror rank, Mr. Potter. Effective immediately. The Ministry cannot harbor retrograde and reactionary elements, you know."

The fire rushed out of Harry, seizing Duplais and tossing him back against the opposite wall. He screamed as the flames coiled around his chest, down his limbs, and then he stopped screaming as it went down his throat. The smell was thick around them, the smell of a good roast.

The paper on the desk caught fire, the books on the shelves, the wood of the shelves, the chair behind the desk, the curtains hanging on the enchanted window. Harry moved to shield Hermione from the flames before he thought about it, and she leaned against his back and cried and cried out.

"Harry, stop! Harry, you're _killing _him!"

Still consumed in that initial burst of rage as in a sunrise, it was hard for Harry to listen at first. He _wanted _to see Duplais's eyes melt and drip down his cheeks, he realized. He wanted to see his bones blacken and crumble and collapse. He wanted to hear the small crackles and pops from inside his body as the fat fried.

But Hermione was with him, and she shouldn't have to see something like that, so he pulled his wild magic back slowly into himself. Duplais slumped to the floor, covered with burns, but breathing. Harry clenched his fists and breathed in hot little puffs, feeling flame lick his ears harmlessly.

Hermione stood frozen. Harry did, too, staring, because he couldn't think of what would happen next.

But he did know one thing: This changed everything. This was an end.

Hermione was still sobbing against his back. Harry moved one arm slowly to comfort her, relieved beyond words when she didn't pull away. He kept his gaze on Duplais, who parted his lips in what was probably meant to be a moan of agony, although Harry couldn't hear it.

He hadn't _meant _to. His temper had simply leaped, and his magic with it.

But now, he had to think.

Aurors were pounding on the door. Harry could turn around, walk out of here, and give himself up to them. It was even possible that he might survive a trial, since his name would protect him in a way that wasn't possible for other people who were Muggleborn.

But he could see Lydia Donner's eyes wide open, blinded, still seeking him as she talked about what had happened, because her blindness was so recent, the result of a Dissolving Potion being spread across her eyeballs.

Harry's shoulders tightened, and when he turned to face the door, it was with his wand in his hand.

"Stay behind me," he whispered to Hermione, who was standing so rigidly still, trying to control her tears, that he wasn't sure she heard him.

_For her, and me, and Ron. And everyone._

He stepped forwards and cast his first curse.


	2. The Only Way Out Is Through

Thank you for all the reviews!

_Chapter Two-The Only Way Out Is Through_

The Aurors that entered the room were Taliesin Graywood and Jennifer Morgan. Harry had worked with both of them and respected them, although Graywood had a bit too much of a stuffed head on him when it came to his Defensive spells.

Now, the only thing Harry was thinking about was what kind of curses they would cast. He didn't intend to leave them a chance to find their feet, and so the first curse he cast was an Oblivious Mirror. Graywood reeled to a stop, lifting his hand, as though he wondered why he could see only his own eyes.

Morgan had either avoided the curse altogether or was more experienced at dealing with it than Harry had expected. She dropped to one knee and cast a Leglocker Jinx at Harry-not very powerful, but inconvenient as hell if it did manage to land.

Harry jumped and spun as he moved, dragging Hermione with him so that she wasn't hit by it, either. God only knew what would happen to her if he left her here; he wasn't interested in finding out. He dropped to the floor himself, beneath the layer of smoke that the smoldering contents of Duplais's office were producing, and used a Stunner. He didn't want to hurt anyone if he could avoid it.

But Morgan came towards him in a crabwise scuttle, avoiding the _Stupefy, _too, and he realized grimly that he wouldn't be able to avoid hurting someone for much longer. Although Morgan had certainly seen his Auror robes, she wasn't hesitating. Harry wondered if she had already received the news of his sacking from the Aurors.

Harry flung himself forwards and kicked Morgan in the elbow, sending her wand flying. He heard a faint sound that might have been Hermione grabbing it, but he couldn't tell for sure and he didn't dare take the time to check. He disabled Morgan's left hand, her wand hand, with another kick, and then grabbed her hair and slammed her head against Duplais's burning desk a few times.

Dazed, Morgan fixed her eyes on him. Harry leaned close and hissed, "_Legilimens._"

He was astonished when it actually worked, his mind diving into hers as though he was plunging into a lake of icy razors. But then memories were flashing past him, and he realized he had no idea how to isolate the one he actually wanted.

He snatched at one near the surface that had a color, deep green, like his own eyes and hair mingled, and it turned out to be the right one. Morgan was standing in front of a large desk that looked like the one in the office of Gillian Clearwater, the current Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Clearwater had an expression of distaste on her face, but the words she spoke were firm.

"Potter's been sacked. He's been making-strange-comments. The Minister wants you to fetch him and escort him to St. Mungo's. Don't talk to him along the way, even if he tries to talk to you. Especially if he tries to talk to you," she added, and then turned her back and walked over to the window of her office, which showed a calm scene of autumn trees standing above a meadow where children played. "I hate this, but it's what we have to do," she said, as if to herself, her auburn hair shining faintly as she shook her head.

Harry broke himself from the memory, sick and shaking. So, they were going to try to claim that he was mad even before he destroyed the Minister's office and attacked the Minister?

Well, fine then. Harry surged to his feet, grim and driven by the thought that at least he didn't have much to lose in what he intended to do next.

Morgan stared up at him, panting. Harry took a swift glance over his shoulder for Graywood, only now thinking about how stupid it had been to read someone's mind when her partner was still free behind him, but found him lying on the floor, unconscious. Hermione stood over him, coughing from the smoke, wand in her hand.

Harry nodded fiercely to her, and then looked back at Morgan as she said, "Do you think they'll let you live?"

"That's not the important question right now," Harry said, and Stunned her. He and Hermione dragged the bodies into the corridor, and then Harry turned to face the smoke and held up his hands.

He had always had trouble controlling his temper since the war, but it was only since he had entered Auror training that this wild magic had started manifesting. His trainers theorized that he'd always had the potential; before the war, though, Voldemort had existed for him to direct the anger at. Harry didn't know if he could control a conflagration like this.

He had to, though. There would be enough alarms ringing now: alarms attuned to the Minister's office, to his life, to the paperwork that some of the more obsessive clerks and secretaries put special warding spells on. If he cut off the alarms suddenly, it was possible that not as many people would crowd into their path and stop them, because some of them would assume that the proper authorities had taken care of the situation.

_This preference to be safe and ignorant is going to work for me instead of against me for once, _Harry thought, and then reached out, shaped his palms around the twisting spirals of smoke, and told them that they were going to calm and return to him. He envisioned them as lightning bolts that had extended from the scar on his forehead, and had to come back to it to serve him.

The fire wavered, struggling, and Harry understood why. He was still angry at Duplais and the Ministry in general, and it was his temper that gave birth to the flames. As long as he continued to feel that emotion, then they would exist.

But Harry had a tactic to beat that, too. He closed his eyes and thought about the people probably clustered outside the office right now, the ones who would stay in the corridors and block their escape, and the ones who would blame the Weasleys, Hermione, and everyone else close to him for his behavior.

The skin at the hollow of his throat warmed, and the heat in the office dropped significantly. Harry opened his eyes, saw that only smoke was left, and turned, coughing, to where Hermione waited for him.

"We'll have to travel fast and hit them hard," he said, lowering his voice until she bowed her head towards his mouth. "We can't risk anyone stopping us, because the moment they do, we'll be arrested."

Hermione's eyes reflected the flames still, he thought, although they'd gone. "Harry," she whispered. "Why-how can you do this? How can you hope to get _away _with this? You know they'll stop you."

Harry shook his head brusquely. "I looked at Morgan's mind. They were planning to declare me mad, Hermione. Clearwater told Morgan and Graywood not to listen to anything I said. I'm not about to surrender to people like that, when they would probably lock me away and never let me see the sunlight again." He felt a familiar crawling up his spine at the thought. The Dursleys had locked him away. He wasn't going to let it happen now. The Ministry probably couldn't match the Dursleys in sheer hatred of him, but they had a lot more methods to make him stay put.

Hermione looked as if she wanted to cry in anger. "But they can't _do _that. It can't _happen._"

"The way that people can't be thrown in Azkaban for minor crimes and the way that pure-bloods can't get away with murder?" Harry asked harshly. He understood what Hermione was saying, but there was no way he could give in to it. They had to _move_. Already, Harry could hear murmurs from beyond the door, although no one was brave enough to poke his head in it. "The way that people are flooding the Ministry right now with protests against what's been happening?"

Hermione bowed her head and said nothing. Harry squeezed her hand, hard. "I don't like it, either," he whispered, "but we _have _to. We have to _move_. Come on." And he led her to the door, braced his body for a low count of three that he shared only with Hermione, and then flung himself outwards.

* * *

There _had _to be a better way.

Hermione's mind spun as she and Harry pounded down the corridor, ducking and dodging between frightened and bewildered people who yelled after them, sometimes with hostility in their voices, sometimes with wonder. Harry kept them moving under a breeze that transported some of the smoke from Duplais's office with them, and Hermione bumped into people and squeezed past others who, she knew, had no idea who she was.

But this couldn't go on. Harry couldn't just be declared a criminal and then run. Nothing would change, except that one of Hermione's best friends would go to prison and their enemies would become stronger. Harry thought he was changing things, but it wouldn't be a real, new beginning without more planning.

They reached a corner. Harry checked around it and then had to duck a curse from an Auror. Hermione dropped down beside him, already weaving a sleeping enchantment on her wand and tongue that she cast on the three Aurors running towards them. Harry seemed surprised when they just folded up and slumped to the floor, but accepted it, grabbing her wrist in a grip that hurt to make her run after him.

There had to be a way.

Around the corner were the lifts, but Hermione didn't know how they were going to gain them, even with the traveling smoke enchantment. They would be full of people, most of them heading in the direction of the Minister's office. At least some, like the Aurors who had tackled Harry, would know about the Ministry's intention to sack him and outlaw him. But Harry bulled straight ahead as if he didn't know that.

Or wasn't thinking about it, which Hermione had to admit was more likely.

There had to be a way.

As they came into sight of the lifts, Hermione found it.

She gripped Harry's wrist and swung herself close to him, hissing in his ear, "No matter what, I want you to follow my lead. All right? Just do as I say. I'm not betraying you, I'm not turning against you, but you might think I am. Just _do it._"

There was what seemed to be an endless moment before Harry nodded, but Hermione knew it wasn't, really. He did trust her. He did think he knew best in dangerous situations, though, and must be surprised at her taking the lead.

Hermione turned so that her back was to him and waved her wand, dissipating the smoke enchantment. For _this _part, everyone had to see them both and know who they were. Heads turned in their direction, and surprised cries started up. From the way many people leveled their wands, Hermione could see how far the rumor of Harry's madness had spread.

_Further than I'd hoped, _she thought, and then shouted, "Help me! He's got me! He's taking me along!"

Harry, as Hermione had fervently hoped, grasped the essence of her plan right away, if not the why. His hand locked on her arm, dragging her back towards him realistically enough that Hermione gasped in pain. Harry laid his wand against her throat and said in credibly deadly tones, "If anyone moves against me, I kill her first."

Everyone froze and stared. Hermione saw a few people on the fringes of the crowd who still blinked. Give them long enough and they might start thinking.

_Although probably not, with how many people have failed to object to these ridiculous accusations so far._

Hermione shivered and whispered, "He'll do it. He _will._" She fixed her eyes on a woman at the fringes of the crowd whom she thought she might be able to impress, and thought of what would have happened if Morgan and Graywood had succeeded in locking Harry up. That made an expression come across her face that caused the woman to step back a little. "Please," Hermione whispered to the rest of the crowd, turning her head slightly and then gasping as Harry wrenched at her arm. "Don't make him hurt me."

Everyone backed away, even the Aurors. They, at least, looked intensely frustrated. Hermione knew from listening to Ron and Harry that they received training in dealing with criminals who held hostages, but it usually involved the criminal not having Auror training himself.

"I have no reason to hurt you," Harry muttered to her, into her ear but loud enough to be heard, "as long as you cooperate." He started drawing her towards the lift, watching everyone in sight.

He made a good criminal, Hermione admitted. There were too many people who knew about his wild magic, too, and would find it easy to believe that he'd gone mad and had to be treated like a feral beast.

As they reached the lift and Harry pushed the button that would take them to the Atrium, one of the Aurors on the far side of the crowd moved. It was a small shifting of his weight, and it might not have been the prelude to an attack, but Harry snarled beside Hermione's hair, "_Procella mentis._"

The Auror fell, clawing at his head, his body spasming. Hermione shuddered. She had seen that particular incantation, the Mindstorm Curse, written down on parchments that listed the ways owners commonly punished house-elves. It caused an epileptic seizure in someone who didn't normally have them, and kept it going until mind and body alike were so disordered that the person it was cast on lost all sense of their original intentions.

The crowd pulled further back, until it clung to the walls. Some people whimpered. Harry glared at them and stepped neatly into the lift as the door opened, still dragging Hermione with him.

"I'll kill her," he whispered. "I swear I will."

The door shut. The lift started down. Harry loosed an explosive breath, swore, and then cast _Muffliato. _Hermione winced, even though she knew why he'd chosen that spell; it would bypass any eavesdropping charms that someone might try to use on them. "Mind explaining what your brilliant idea is?" he asked, without as much heat as she'd expected.

Hermione glanced at him, rubbing her wrist. Harry leaned back against the wall of the lift, already shuddering as though he was at the end of a race. The corners of his mouth drooped. As she watched, he dug one hand deep into his hair and yanked it up, clenching it as though pain would give him the answers to his problems.

"You can't be that tired yet," Hermione said softly. "You'll have to keep going until you're out of the Ministry. Once you're free, Apparate to our house. Tell Ron what's going on. He'll have to make a decision."

One of Harry's eyes popped open. "What's he doing at home? I thought he would have been at the Ministry."

Hermione shook her head impatiently. Time was passing, and she had to tell Harry everything. "He begged off for being sick this morning, but I doubt that he really was. Just-go to him. Take him with you if he'll go. I'll stay here and be your spy in the Ministry ranks. Everyone will be more eager to believe that I turned against you after you took me prisoner. Meanwhile, I can pass information around, listen for rumors, and explode the rumors about you being mad." She eyed the numbers on the lift. They were almost to the Atrium. She tried to remember if there was anything else she needed to say to him. She couldn't think of it. This situation was exploding around them, changing too fast to be ridden, really, like a wave of heat and light. She would have to hope that they could have a secure method to communicate soon.

"But why don't you come with me?" Harry blinked at her. "Do you think a spy is really that important?"

"_Yes_," Hermione said, startling herself with the echoes of that cry. "If this is going to change things, and be more than just you trying to avoid being caught and condemned for burning Duplais." She gave Harry a steady look that she hoped would convey both her displeasure at the fact that he'd done that and understanding of why. "If it's going to be a revolution."

Watching hope return to Harry's face was a beautiful thing. He caught and squeezed her hand so hard that Hermione blushed. "Thank you," he whispered. "I knew you'd be with me."

The absolute faith in his voice made Hermione want to hug him, but they'd reached the Atrium and the lift was beginning to open. Hermione cast a quick spell to jam the doors for a minute and whispered, "Take Ron with you if he'll go. I think he'll do better on the run than with me. He wouldn't be happy; he's too honest. And take everyone with you who'll come. Use some test to find out if they're loyal, of course. Don't lose sight of what you're fighting for. I'll contact the _Quibbler _as soon as I can." She paused, and doubt fell on her like a heavy blanket. "Oh, Harry, where will you _go_?"

"I have somewhere in mind," Harry said, and then wrenched open the doors and wrenched her forwards at the same time.

Once again, Aurors were waiting for them, and once again they didn't seem to know what to do with someone who had their training. Then Hermione smelled smoke, and glanced over her shoulder.

She tried to recoil despite herself. Flames danced around Harry, burning steadily without burning _him_. His head was crowned with fire, his shoulders were mantled with it, and his eyes shone with a green flame that made her stumble. Harry gripped her harder and gave her a raking look.

"Stay _still_," he said. "Didn't I tell you that?"

Hermione let her eyes shut and her head loll forwards, as if she was on the verge of fainting. Harry shoved her further and further into the Atrium, and cast a nonverbal curse that made one Auror start screaming and clawing at his skin. Hermione swallowed. She didn't recognize that one.

"I've already killed one person," Harry said. "I have no problem making it two. Or ten." There were nine Aurors facing them. "Now. Let me get through the Floo, and I'll release her. Don't do it, and I won't be responsible for what happens."

"Why should we trust you to keep your word?" That was from a short Auror with mousy brown hair, who eased closer to them both with her wand out as if it were a dog's seeking nose. "You've already committed murder. You could do it again. It's obvious that Madam Granger-Weasley doesn't matter to you."

Harry only sneered at her. "You'd _like _to think that, wouldn't you, Desang?" he asked. There was a nasty, personal tone in his voice that Hermione vowed to remember. It might be important. "But the fact is that you can only watch me do it, unless-" And his wand jabbed a bit harder into Hermione's throat.

Desang froze, holding up her hands. Hermione made sure to keep her head drooping. Unlike most of the people in the Atrium, Desang was watching them with the eyes of someone who thought and reasoned about what was in front of her. "Just making conversation, Auror Potter."

"I know better than to fall for that sort of shite, now," Harry said, and then whirled and kicked off in a complicated movement that Hermione wasn't able to follow even when she thought about it later. It shoved her into the arms of the nearest, startled Auror and propelled him towards the nearest fireplace. Curses spat past her, but by the time Hermione turned her head, Harry was gone in a burst of green flames.

She closed her eyes in relief.

"Madam?" Desang was beside her, hovering with an anxious gaze at her face. "Is it all right if I speak to you now, about what you witnessed while you were Auror Potter's hostage? It could be important."

Hermione forced a smile and an earnest nod. "Of course," she murmured. "It happened so _suddenly, _you know? One minute everything was all right, and then..."

So she babbled on, while Desang nodded sympathetically and more eyes than she could count watched her.

_This is the way a spy begins._

* * *

"It'll be hard, leaving Hermione." Ron's face was pale, and he needed the support of the table. "But yeah, mate, of course I'll come with you. Hermione has a plan, doesn't she? And you do, too. You're going to make this more than just someone running from the law and maybe killing a few Aurors before they slow him down."

Harry nodded and clapped him on the shoulder. He was glad that Ron understood and wanted to come with him, where before he had seemed just as angry as Harry about what the Ministry was doing but more resigned to putting up with it.

And it wasn't a lie that Harry intended to make this more than just him running around while the Ministry followed, until, inevitably, he was caught or had to leave for the Muggle world. He didn't have a plan _yet_, but he would.

He and Ron packed the best of their plain robes, enough food under Preserving Charms that they wouldn't have to risk stopping or stealing from anybody for at least a week, several useful potions, and a tent with wizardspace in it that was left over from the Horcrux hunt. Ron kept staring narrowly at the door, as if he expected to hear someone pounding there and declaring they were from the Ministry at any moment, but the peace wasn't broken; Harry had Flooed to several different places and cast Confundus Charms on the people at each one, rather than going directly to the house. Finally, Harry swung his pack over his shoulder and held out an arm to Side-Along Apparate Ron.

Ron took it, though he frowned. "You know a place where the Muggles won't see us coming in, mate?"

Harry shook his head and used his free hand to cast a glamour on his face that softened his features and made his eyes blue. He'd used it several times when traveling undercover, and it was remarkable how just a tiny change would make people unsure about someone they had seen dozens of times in photographs only. "No. We're not going to the Muggle world. At least, not at first."

"Where?" Ron demanded, but the question was swallowed up as they Apparated.

They landed in Diagon Alley. Ron darkened his hair with another wave of his wand and then looked up at the building in front of him. He paled.

"Harry," he whispered. "Please, mate. You know he's mourning."

"We need him, and I think he needs us," Harry said firmly, and then rapped on the door and lifted his voice. "George!"

* * *

Just that morning, George had woken up thinking that he heard Fred speaking to him-not as a memory, not in dreams, but in the same low, urgent tone he had used when he thought they might be in trouble they couldn't laugh off.

_Something's coming, little brother. Something that will change you. You need to be ready._

It was strange, George thought when he opened his eyes, how, for the first time since the death, he didn't feel alone.

And when Harry knocked on the door and called his name, George didn't need the memory of the warning prodding at him to know what else knocked along with him.

Opportunity.


	3. Today, When the War Begins

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Three-Today, When the War Begins_

_From a letter by Auror Andrea Desang to her sister, Mara Constante:_

...don't understand how it could have happened. Oh, he was violent and didn't have control of his temper, and I think sometimes he was angry with me because I argued with him about how the Minister was really the best Minister we could have, someone who might give us _real _change instead of the half-arsed efforts that Shacklebolt would have approved.

But I would never have thought Harry Potter would go mad. I thought he'd survived worse things than just not being able to do as he'd liked.

Some people are saying that he wasn't really mad, but you should have seen Madam Weasley-Granger's face, Mara. She believed it. She was standing there, shaking, her hands holding each other as if she was afraid that she would reach for support if they didn't. She's a proud woman, but we'll work together, I think, since I'm the one assigned to protect her and to question her about what she thinks Potter might do next. She's already given me some good ideas...

* * *

_Quibbler _article for the day after Harry Potter fled the Ministry, by Luna Lovegood:

_**All a Lie?**_

_ Sources have fed us the information that Minister Jacques Duplais is expected to recover from his burns, but not to resume his Ministerial duties. Head Auror Gillian Clearwater has been tapped to succeed him, or at least so other sources, close to the Ministry, assert._

_ The burning is a terrible thing. No one can deny that. Harry Potter should not have done that, and I will tell him so the next time I see him._

_ But at the same time, one has to wonder why Harry would strike _right then. _What did he know that the rest of us didn't? What had he heard from Minister Duplais that made him decide it was the right time for a revolution?_

_ Other trusted sources (the second ones, not the first ones) say that Harry had been sacked and the other Aurors told that he was to be taken to St. Mungo's and locked up. I would say that that's a good reason for starting a revolution. What do we really know about Minister Duplais, after all? He's not a war hero. He's a politician. And politicians have always been uneasy around war heroes. They have to control them, soothe their consciences to sleep with luxuries, or get rid of them. And anyone who knows Harry Potter has to realize that the first two would be impossible, with him._

_ Why did Harry really burn Minister Duplais? That's the question that everyone needs to be asking themselves._

_ Well, and one other, of course: What side would you take in a real revolution?_

* * *

_From the first _Daily Prophet _article to address the flight of Harry Potter, by Rita Skeeter:_

_**Dumbledore's Dark Legacy**_

_ The twisted vines of the man known as Albus Dumbledore have finally borne fruit. Harry Potter, the brave child he tortured and had a most inappropriate relationship with, has finally fled the Ministry and turned on those who sheltered him._

_ "I don't at all blame him," says Taliesin Graywood, one of the two Aurors assigned to arrest Mr. Poter. He was blinded momentarily for his trouble, and nearly burned to death in the ruins of Minister Duplais's office. "No one could keep their sanity under the pressures he had to endure. It would be mad."_

_ Jennifer Morgan, another Auror sent to arrest Mr. Potter, disagrees with this assessment. "He read my mind," she says. "I could feel him in there, sifting through memories and looking at images that he had no right to access." She breaks down with tears on her lovely face, her head in her hands. "It was horrible. No one knows what it's like, because so few people are subject to Legilimency without Ministry approval."_

_ Speculation abounds on how long the Ministry has known that Harry Potter was a Legilimens and had been using him as a secret weapon. Some estimate only a few months, but others insist that it was the reason for Potter being accepted into the Auror program at such a young age and without some of the basic training necessary for most applicants._

_ "He wasn't any good at Potions," asserts a trusted source close to Head Auror and Acting Minister Gillian Clearwater, who asked not to be named because he would be in peril of losing his job. "There had to be some skill in the background that was giving him an extra boost, you know? And Legilimency, which we know that he demonstrated because of the assault on Morgan, would fit."_

_ Acting Minister Clearwater declined to comment, but we feel sure that she would agree with this view. (For a look at Acting Minister Clearwater's political background, please see page 6. For an in-depth investigation of her robes and makeup habits, see page 4)._

_ The questions are, of course, how does one arrest a daring and mad former Auror who can read your plans _right out of your head? _And who has the trust of dozens of house-elves and the ability to become a werewolf at will, as well..._

* * *

_From the desk of Gillian Clearwater, Head Auror, Acting Minister, Mastermind of the Hunt for Potter:_

Yes, of course you're to put as many people on the job as possible. We have to corner him before he can vanish into the Muggle world. He was raised there, and God knows what kind of contacts and hiding places he still has.

You may use any Auror who will follow instructions. Keep in mind that some of them have shown signs of rebellion even before this, and they may refuse to hunt someone as popular and dangerous as Harry Potter. If they do, say that you understand and make sure that you keep them far away from the hunt. They might be changeable in their sympathies and inclined to go over to his side if you give them half a chance. They must not know too much about your methods or hunters, in any case, so that Potter, if contacting them, will not learn anything.

Full command of the Ministry's pegasi cavalry and Hit Wizards is yours. Keep an eye out for Potter sympathizers among the Hit Wizards, of course, but I am more confident in expecting no trouble out of them. Most of them didn't work closely with Potter and will know him as nothing more than a distant heroic figure.

If need be, look into the Department of Mysteries for an artifact that will help you. Some of them are fully tested and may be used even by someone who isn't fully-trained. Just make sure to keep the instructions with the artifact, and spell them both to Apparate back to the Ministry in the case of unfortunate accidents.

God grant that you catch him, and Merlin grant that Minister Duplais feels fit to resume his duties soon. I wish this need not have happened while I was Acting Minister.

* * *

_From the _Daily Prophet _article published a week after Harry Potter's disappearance:_

_**Minister Duplais Succumbs to His Injuries!**_

_Healers Say That Minister Was 'Too Far Gone to Save'_

We have received word that Minister Duplais, who a week ago suffered burns from a magical fire at the hands of Harry Potter after telling him that he would be sacked, has died in St. Mungo's. The Healers admitted that the burns came from wild magic, and that they rarely deal with wild magic.

"Most of our patients with this type of injury are children," said Healer Mathilda Rowland, whose customary look of good cheer was replaced by exhaustion and grief this morning. "It's just a matter of persuading their bodies to recognize the magic, master it, and recover from wounds that they won't have as they age. But Minister Duplais was burned from outside, and by magic that was hostile to him, rather than part of his core. There was never a chance, with as bad as the burns were.

"This is not to undermine the heroic efforts of my brother and sister Healers," she added. "They labored over his bed night and day, and I truly believe that, if anyone in the wizarding world could have saved him, they would have."

Minister Duplais's family has taken charge of the body. Mourners are asked to make donations to the Integration Fund, to help along Minister Duplais's fondest wish: that Muggleborns and pure-bloods should integrate and share the wizarding world.

The funeral will be held on Saturday, immediately after the swearing in of Head Auror Gillian Clearwater as Emergency Minister...

* * *

_From the private diary of Gillian Clearwater: _

Shit.

I never wanted this.

I thought for sure Jacques would recover. He was too much of a reptile to die. A lizard can keep going when you cut its tail off; a snake can dance when you cut off its head, or at least some people say so. How in the world should I have expected him to be different? How should I have anticipated this?

And then Potter. I know that we have to catch him before he can start a _real _revolution and undermine the stability of the wizarding world, but I wish that he hadn't left under these circumstances. I wish there was any chance of a peaceful resolution. I wish I thought I had a chance of persuading Potter to give up his wand and yield himself to the Ministry.

I wish Jacques hadn't died.

But there's no help for it. At least my term as Emergency Minister should only last six months at the most.

I hope.

* * *

_Letter from Hermione Granger to Harry Potter, delivered via pigeon:_

Harry,

I think it's best to use Hector here for a while, until I can enchant some other pigeons into delivering my post. They're the best choice I can think of. Some of the spells that function on owls will function on them, too, and no one in the wizarding world thinks to look for them in the same way they do for owls. Did you know that post-owls are a fairly recent conquest? People tried all sorts of other spells on other birds, including ravens, before they started to figure out that owls could do the best job. It was thought that because they were nocturnal, they wouldn't be able to adapt to flying during the day, and-

I'm sorry. You probably don't want to hear about post-owls, but about the Ministry instead.

Most people here seem to be in shock over you still, Harry. They're talking about hunting you down, but they're making lots of preparations so far and very little actual plans. I know that Aurors Morgan and Graywood have visited the Department of Mysteries three times in the past week. I'd imagine they'd be the ones sent out with artifacts to test them, if any are.

Clearwater is Minister now, as you must have heard. She intends to continue the hunt for you, but I know that people close to her are hinting that she's reluctant to do it. She'd probably be all right to approach for a negotiation, if you want to do it. (I know that you probably don't want to).

Auror Jerome Catcher, the one you hit with the Mindstorm, is expected to make a full recovery. I visited him in hospital, and he told me that he doesn't want to face you ever again. Sometimes I thought he was on the verge of telling me something else, but he always shut his mouth and looked away at the wall. I'll keep an eye on him and let you know if I learn anything else useful.

Auror Andrea Desang has been assigned to follow me around, bodyguard me, and pry as much information out of me as she can, as gently as she can. She thinks I don't know that last part. She always asks me questions about the ending of our friendship, and she really _does _do that gently. I have the impression that she lost a friend herself recently, or in something of the same way. What do you know about her, Harry? I heard the way you spoke to her. Did she do something to you? I'd ask, but I don't want to seem too interested in her. I'm playing the part of someone so absorbed in her own grief that she doesn't even notice when someone else questions her about it.

It's a dangerous game, but you can tell Ron that no one suspects me so far. They think I'm still in shock, still on their side, but might not be when I have time to think about it. So they're feeding me misinformation about you and what you intend. It's not as useful as straight information would be, but at least I can sort out what they believe and the principles that will guide their hunt for you.

For example, many of them think that you've been concealing advanced abilities for years, not just wild magic but the ability to transform into a werewolf on command, fly at will like Voldemort could in the last part of the war, and other such drivel. I wasn't sure whether you would want me to crush that nonsense or not.

You can send word back with Hector. No matter how small he seems, he can still fly faster than the spells they'd use to catch him and hold him back. And we'll work out a more secure method of communication as soon as we can. You don't know how anxious I am to hear your voice and see you again, Harry. Give my love to Ron, and tell him that I expect him to be holding strong and helping you, instead of getting into one of those broody, sulky moods the way he did when he discovered that I was earning more Galleons than he was. Remind him of that; he should know what I mean instantly, and if he doesn't, then I'm not above showing up to remind him.

_Love,_

_ Hermione._

* * *

_From a sign on Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, positioned above the front door and lettered in a careful, large hand:_

CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE

* * *

_From a Quibbler article entitled "The Ministry Brooks No Opposition": _

_Faithful readers might have wondered about the delay of our next edition after the one announcing the escape of Harry Potter and the rebirth of divisions between wizard and wizard. The simple truth is that the_ Quibbler's_ home press was attacked, by Ministry officials leading a force of Inferi. The _Quibbler _now operates from a more secure location, and of course our editors are proud to serve you, the people, who deserve to know more about the deadly forces that your Ministry has created and is experimenting with._

_ Yes, they were Inferi. Your faithful editor came close enough to smell them. Not as bad as Scaly-Skinned Stinkbugs, but close. And of course, one could always recognize an Inferius by the lack of soul in its eyes. Your faithful editor saw no one she knew, but it is always possible._

_ The _Quibbler _has been attacked for doing no more than reporting knowledge that everyone should have. We now declare our allegiance whole-heartedly: Help Harry Potter!_

_From the private diary of Gillian Clearwater:_

The only blessing about the reporting of that bloody stupid attack in the _Quibbler _is that most people are going to think the Inferi are only another of Lovegood's delusions.

Jacques left revealing papers-very revealing. He'd been experimenting with some of the artifacts removed from the Department of Mysteries's inventory. And he'd actually been _encouraging _the necromancers and those idiots who think Muggle demons are real and we can summon them.

The Ministry is in a shambles. But to tear it out root and branch, the way Potter wants to do, is not a solution, either. Reform is the only thing we can do. I hope that I can attend to that around and even over the hunt for Potter, although most of my colleagues won't like that last part if they get wind of it.

Slow work, the only kind _that _works. I wonder if Potter will see that? Or is the situation sweeping him along with everyone else, and he can only ride the wave and worry about where it crashes?

* * *

_A letter from Harry Potter to Hermione Granger, delivered by Hector the post-pigeon:_

Dear Hermione,

You don't have to worry about Ron. The minute I said something to him about the Galleons you make, he turned as red as a bull and said that he was going to _prove _to you that he would make a good revolutionary even if he wouldn't make a good spy. He puffed and huffed and practically bounced up and down, then went to work with George on the next trick that he's putting together. (He sent along a letter for you that I'm folding inside this one).

There are only three of us so far, but, Hermione, we've got such _ideas._

George is the one who comes up with most of them. That's why I went and got him. I knew that we'd need him to help survive this war and come up with most of the good attacks. George is transforming his jokes into weapons of war. He and Fred could probably have done more of that in the war against Voldemort, if anyone had asked them, but they were worried about other things, and I don't blame them.

And George was different, then. I'm not sure that he would have wanted to kill anyone, even Snape when he cursed his ear off. But Fred's-gone, now, and you know what that did to him. Maybe better than anyone, since I recall that you spend a few weeks talking to him after the war.

Thanks for the news. I might be able to negotiate with Clearwater, after all, and the facts about Morgan and Graywood are interesting. I wouldn't be surprised if we end up facing them in battle with artifacts; they'll want to prove that they didn't fail to arrest me because they're on my side or something like that.

Just keep an eye on Catcher. I know him, and I think I'll know what he'll do, but it's not tremendously important in the scheme of things. I think you'll be surprised.

About Desang...she challenged and criticized me constantly when I was in the training program. She was only doing her job, I thought, but I discovered later that she'd taken on the role of deflating my swelled head, not that it _had _much time to get inflated with all the things I was discovering that I did wrong.

She poked and prodded at me, set up situations that were harder than any other trainee had to face, and told me again and again that my mistakes would cost lives. That's true for _anyone_, though. Why did she decide that I'd be particularly prone to make mistakes and they'd be particularly devastating? Because I was the Boy-Who-Lived? I thought that anyone who spent time around me at all should know that I don't _believe _in that shit.

I'm sure she'll be even worse now, because she'll think that she was proven right and I was just _waiting _to start a revolution, rather than being driven to it by necessity and because someone had to do _something _about everything that was happening around us.

I don't know. You might try reasoning with her if you can, Hermione, but don't listen too much to what she says. I did, and for a long time I doubted myself and wondered if it was _my _fault that I resented her and the challenges she set. I worried that everyone thought of me the way she did, or at least would if I refused to be calm and reasonable at all times.

Then I realized that I didn't need a minder. I'm an adult now, and I intend to continue being that way.

You can encourage the rumors, or at least look coy and stay silent about them. They might be useful.

Watch yourself, Hermione. I'm not sure what the Ministry would do if they caught you spying, but I do know that I don't ever want to find out.

_Love,_

_ Harry._

* * *

_From a private report sent to Minister Clearwater from Acting Head Auror Judith Summers:_

Minister, you asked to be notified of rebellious sympathies in any of the Aurors. I fear I have worse news than that to report.

As you may have noticed, Auror Jerome Catcher was hit by the Mindstorm Curse on the day that Potter escaped. The curse came from Potter's wand. He appeared to have made a recovery, but the Healers had noticed that he often requested long stretches of time by himself, more than a patient recovering from that curse should have. They kept an eye on him to ensure that he would do himself no damage.

Yesterday afternoon, one of their wards rang. Auror Catcher had vanished from his room.

They feared murder or kidnapping at first, but no sign of Potter was discovered in the room, and the spell that we have developed to track his magical signature revealed no trace of him. We did, however, discover a note that Auror Catcher left. It shows every sign of being written in his hand and not without thought, eliminating, as much as one can, the possibility that someone forced him into writing it. [Note enclosed]

We have lost our first Auror to Potter, Minister. Auror Catcher has fled to join him...

* * *

_Hermione Granger, second letter to Harry Potter, delivered by Hector the post-pigeon:_

Dear Harry,

How did you know what Catcher would do? I hope that he'll prove a valuable addition to your ranks.

The Ministry is boiling now. Auror Desang keeps asking me new questions, and all the other Aurors go about looking at each other sidelong. Rumor has it that Clearwater spent all day yesterday closeted with Auror Summers-she's the new Head Auror-and Hit Wizard Jeffries.

I'm sorry that I don't have more concrete information to report. I _can _tell you that I haven't seen Morgan and Graywood in a few days. I don't think they're here right now. They might have headed into the field with their artifacts. The Department of Mysteries has stockpiled many things over the years that it should have no right to, including some of the more powerful Dark heirlooms that belonged to pure-blood families who lost their power in various centuries. Watch out for them.

You've probably read the _Quibbler _article where Luna reports encountering Inferi. I've spoken to her, under the guise of persuading her to support the Ministry, and she insists that she knows what she saw. I can't argue with her, but at the same time, it's hard to believe. Is the Ministry really creating Inferi? Is it really _encouraging _their creation?

That makes it hard for me to believe there are any redeeming features left to them.

I'm going to try and make friends with Desang. Now that I know what grudge you have against each other, I think I know what to say.

Keep Ron safe. Tell him he's not to step into the middle of any roads without looking both ways and not to ride any cursed broomsticks. The enclosed letter is for him.

_Love,_

_ Hermione._

* * *

_From a private memo from Acting Head Auror Judith Summers to Minister Gillian Clearwater:_

Minister, ten other Aurors, besides Auror Catcher, have now left our ranks with the stated intention of joining Potter. We have also lost twenty Hit Wizards, though it is not as clear that all of them left to go to him...

* * *

_Private memo from Minister Gillian Clearwater to Acting Head Auror Judith Summers:_

You are hereby advised to use any method against Potter that you care to and think may contain or stop him.

And, Judith?

I do mean _any _method.


	4. Double Agents

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Four-Double Agents_

The knock on the door of the Manor resounded through dim chambers and stern wards and barred windows to fall on an ear that heard, although its owner had sometimes wished it no longer did.

Draco rolled over in his bed and wondered why the Ministry bothered knocking. They were the only ones who had license to pass through the wards and enter the house, and they did so all the time, "inspecting" for signs of Dark artifacts that Draco no longer had the money to buy even if he'd wanted to. Draco had given up on any notion of privacy or honor the day his parents went to prison.

A knock, though, _did _mean something different. That sufficed to make Draco stand up, cast Cleaning Charms on himself, and throw open the pair of shutters in his rooms that faced the front doors, leaning out.

Three Aurors stood on his front step. Two of them faced outwards, into the gardens, with drawn wands. The third one looked only at the door, although she had her wand out, too, and wavered it up and down as if dowsing for water. As Draco watched, she knocked again.

Draco thought for a moment. Then he stepped away from the window, cast more spells to remove dust and cobwebs-he had no house-elves anymore, thanks to that cunt Granger-and made his way down to the front door.

It could do no harm to see what they wanted.

* * *

"But you haven't told me when you first noticed the change in Auror Potter," Desang said, with a friendly smile that Hermione thought genuine. The woman wasn't a bad sort, only hopelessly mired in Ministry politics. Hermione had decided that subtle recruitment was one of the best things she could do to aid Harry, but she had also decided that she knew better than to try such methods on Desang. "I mean, if he was going mad for some time, there must have been signs long before the final break."

Hermione watched her own hands toying with the glass full of butterbeer and wondered what Desang wanted, or meant, for her to say. "You'd think so," she said. "But I'd known him for so long. Something strange would happen, and I would think that it _was _strange for, oh, an hour. And then I would think, 'Oh, that was only Harry, being Harry.'"

"Can you give me an example?" Someone a few inches away still might have missed the eager, hunting undertone that had crept into Desang's voice.

Hermione gave her a faint smile and leaned back in her seat. They were in the Leaky Cauldron, unusually deserted for this time of day. Then again, since Harry had left, Hermione found it always either deserted or crowded, as if people decided at various times that there was safety in numbers or solitude. "As long as you don't tell it to Rita Skeeter. She is saying the most _ridiculous _shite about him. I don't know why people bother to still read her articles."

"I wouldn't read them, except that they make good gossip." Desang smiled and took a sip of her own Firewhisky. She didn't seem to worry about becoming drunk, but then again, Hermione thought, she wouldn't, not when she apparently had an unlimited capacity for alcohol.

"And, of course," Desang added a moment later, her face clouding, "it's always worth knowing what stupid people believe."

Hermione blinked. She hadn't thought before that she and Desang shared so much of a common perspective.

"Where do you think it comes from?" she asked, as this was something she was interested in herself and didn't have to pretend a false emotion for, which was more exhausting than she'd counted on. "Most of the wizarding world's children go to Hogwarts, which is an excellent school. Plenty of people get lots of NEWTs. I know the Aurors aren't stupid. Why do so many people seem so collectively _idiots_?"

Desang leaned one elbow on the table and thought about that. A few more people came into the pub, but they glanced sideways at Desang's Auror robes, hesitated, and went out again. Tom banged a mug viciously on the counter as he cleaned. Hermione wondered if Desang had noticed. Probably. She saw a lot more than Hermione had thought she did at first, even though she seemed so easy to fool.

"I think," Desang said at last, "that it has to do with the nature of groups. Have you ever tried to track the progress and birth of a rumor? I have, and it's much harder than you'd think. All right; this group of people believes this thing. So you ought to find someone who knows who told the original story. But no one does. They pluck it out of the air. Then newspapers and people like Skeeter pick it up, and that's the end of a clear trail. They can add new elements in just for the fun of it, but they might also believe those elements, and other people will accept them as part of the story. Environment, tendency to panic over minor problems or accept them in their stride because they're similar to what you're familiar with, or different-I've seen people at the Ministry scream at the mere _mention _of a snowstorm that someone from Russia would laugh at as too small to think about-and who you listen to all affect it."

Hermione blinked again. "I haven't heard that clear and cogent an explanation from anyone except myself," she said.

"And I mostly don't have someone to share it with." Desang leaned forwards earnestly. "But you can trust me, if you dare to."

_At least she acknowledges that it might be difficult. _Hermione took another swallow of butterbeer so she could avoid having to answer.

But this time, Desang didn't want to let it go. "Can you tell me one example of a time that Potter acted strange?" she asked. "The Ministry can't always track rumors to their source, but at times they can track down the behavior of one person. And you knew him better than anyone."

"Except my husband," Hermione said, and let bitterness creep into her voice. She was setting up another story, with Ron's reluctant consent: that they'd argued violently, and that was the reason he had gone to follow Harry, rather than that being the place where he could do the most good. "I'd wager that _he _knows a lot more about what Harry does and intends right now than I do."

"Except your husband, of course," Desang said, smoothly adapting herself to the change in circumstances. "But you could still tell me something interesting, if you wanted to."

It was too obvious a challenge to let pass. Up until now, Hermione had pretended not to notice Desang's information-prying attempts, but play stupid too long and your enemies would catch on. She gave Desang a hard stare and shoved her chair back from the table. "You're trying to get me to betray a friend," she said, voice wavering.

Desang shook her head furiously, heavy hair whipping around her face. "Not at all," she said. "Not at _all_. You don't understand. I don't think he's your friend anymore. I like you as a person, Hermione, and I do think that you would work for the best principles and the best reasons if you went over to the Ministry, but I also don't think you need to worry about betraying him. This is the person who tried to take you hostage. Why would you put up with that kind of treatment?"

_Either she's a better liar than I thought she was, or she really does believe that. _And, Hermione had to admit, she would probably believe that about someone who had really been taken hostage, if she continued to defend her captor. She let her fingers play with her mug again. "You're the one who doesn't understand," she said, and her voice dripped out slowly this time. "I can't give up long years of friendship just like that."

"But he already gave it up with you," Desang said at once, fingers knotting together as though she was tying up the strand of her argument. She paused, perhaps caught by something in Hermione's face, and added, "The only thing I'm asking you to do is _think _about it. You would probably resent someone who had done this to another friend, such as your husband. Why don't you resent him? Is there any friendship in the world that can survive strain like that?"

Hermione shrugged, still playing with her drink. Then she picked it up and took a long swallow as though she wanted to drown her thoughts.

"I know it's hard," Desang whispered. "But if he endangers your life and the lives of everyone else in the wizarding world, you have to start thinking whether he's worth everyone else, whether he's more important than masses of innocent people who have never been obliged to him."

"I'll think about it," Hermione said, shoving her chair back abruptly, dropping a few Galleons on the table, and leaving the pub. She heard Desang behind her paying for her own drink and calling on her to wait, since she was supposed to "protect" Hermione from all the nasty lurking dangers of the revolution.

By the time Desang caught up with her, Hermione was calm and could listen to her words and parry them with what Desang would read as growing reluctance. But she'd had to have a moment to herself, to giggle hysterically, when she realized what the Ministry was offering: a chance to spy on her friends.

The chance to become a double agent.

_I can become too involved in the deceits to think my way through them, if I'm not careful._

* * *

Draco sat on the couch in his parents' largest drawing room and winced. A couch that had been the victim of a few merciless household charms never _felt _as clean as one actually dusted. But then again, he was the one sitting there; the three Aurors all occupied chairs across from him. They hadn't come to talk about dusting. Instead, they stared at him. They had been there for ten minutes, and other than accepting a cup of tea from him, they hadn't said a word.

They also didn't drink the tea, Draco noticed, but that was too common for him to care. He moved on to what was more important instead. "What have you come to speak with me about?"

The Auror who had knocked on his door looked at the other two. They both bowed their heads and sighed noiselessly, so she was the one who spoke. She had a lovely pale face, Draco noticed, and dark hair curled high on her head in a way that bespoke pure-blood heritage. "You've heard of Harry Potter and his revolution."

Draco shrugged, already uninterested. He didn't care what Potter did. "I would call it by the title of rebellion, so as not to dignify it beyond what it deserves."

The Auror who'd spoken smiled slightly. "Yes. Well. Call it what you want. We badly need to place a spy in Potter's ranks who can tell us what he intends, and who can give us information about his attacks. He's done nothing concrete so far, but so many Hit Wizards and Aurors have fled to join him that we must assume our secrets have been compromised."

Draco burst out laughing. It was a raucous sound that would have made his parents flinch and certainly made his "visitors" stare, but he didn't care about that, either.

"You've come to the wrong person," he said, when the laughter had played itself out. It didn't take long; he only had to listen to the silence to quell himself. "Potter and I were never friends. I can't play your spy because he won't trust me. Show yourselves out, please. And do finish the tea," he added, with a polished malice that he thought would have done his father proud. "I'm told it's quite good."

He had set his foot on the bottom of the stairs before the speaker said, as if spitting out the words, "I've been authorized to offer you your parents' release if you accept this duty."

Draco's whole world froze.

He stood there encased in silver ice, staring up the stairs and noting the dust that had collected in the crannies of the banisters. Then he turned around. The spokeswoman had worn a faint smile on her face, but it disappeared at the sight of his expression.

"The Wizengamot said they would never be released," Draco whispered. He heard gongs pounding in the back of his head, and wished that he had a bit of his mind free to listen to them. "That it was a life sentence, no matter how many more years they might live, no matter that the evidence of my mother's crimes didn't exist to match my father's."

"Things change," said the Auror woman.

"The Ministry can't change the Wizengamot's decisions," Draco said. That was the first ash-tasting fruit of his long search in the years immediately after the war, when he had tried to call on his father's old political contacts to save him and discovered why no one had wanted to risk his neck to spare Lucius Malfoy trouble.

"Of course not," the Auror said, in a pompous voice that made Draco want to memorize her face and grab a strand of her hair. "But the Minister can offer certain...pieces of advice. Certain messages. The Wizengamot might consider them. Slowly, perhaps, but a slow process can have a quick ending."

Draco knew what he would see if he turned around: the image of his parents, standing behind him hand in hand, the way he had seen them for the last time before they went to prison. The last time before they went to prison, and the last time, because the Ministry always found a reason to deny his petitions to visit Azkaban. He became aware that he was trembling with rage and hunger, and wrapped his hands in his robes behind his back, so that _they _at least would not betray him.

"You cannot make that promise," he said. "I'm nothing. My name means nothing. I have no money to offer you. You have no reason to think that I would make a better spy on Potter than any of the other six dozen Gryffindors he must have known and would trust."

One of the Aurors behind the leader shifted and leaned forwards to whisper something into her ear. The woman flapped her hand, dismissing the words as though they had been flies. She never took her eyes from Draco while she did it. "We _need _someone who hates Potter," she said. "We can't trust anyone who has positive or neutral feelings for him. Too many of them have abandoned our side for his."

"Judith!" hissed the man who had tried to speak to her before.

"Someone who hates him, but has the acting skills necessary to pretend that he doesn't, while holding that hatred constant in his heart..." Judith shrugged and spread her palms as though displaying a completed potion. "They're rare. And we can offer you your parents." She waited, then, both hands dropping to her lap as she looked at him.

Draco could feel his heartbeat quickening, and he didn't bother trying to hide the lust on his face. They would need it, to think him easily manipulated, as he wanted them to, even if he ended up not taking their "generous" offer.

For his parents to know sunlight, to know air, to know _him_...

The terms were such that he would have accepted them immediately had his father not drilled caution into him until Draco breathed it. This could as easily be a plot to rid the Ministry of the last Malfoy as to rid themselves of Potter. Or they wanted to hit both birds with the same stone. Someone in the Ministry was _occasionally _that clever.

"What makes you think that I have the necessary skills?" he asked.

"I've talked to those who remember what you did during your sixth year at Hogwarts," Judith said. "Despite the stress you were under, not many people seem to have noticed your plans. And this time, we're not holding a wand to your parents' throats. You can have my word on my magic that if you fail, their situation will not change."

_A more effective threat than any she could have made against their lives, _Draco thought, and resisted the temptation to clench his fingers shut. He only nodded, as though considering Judith's words, and then leaned closer.

"I'll want details," he said. "What you want me to accomplish, how to contact you, what sort of information you want me to pass on. And minor guarantees along the way. I believe a visit with my parents might be in order."

"I thought you would ask that," Judith said with calm pleasure. "And I have the Minister's dispensation to tell you that..."

Draco remembered every word that Judith-Summers, the Head Auror, as he learned soon enough-said that day, and the ones that she didn't say, including the darker implications behind her words. He knew as clearly as moonlight that he wasn't her only tool to bring down Potter, and that she wouldn't hesitate to sacrifice him if he became more liability than help. Then again, they were better and more honest terms than anyone at the Ministry had offered him since the end of the war.

And for the first time since the war, he would have something other than dust to look at.

* * *

"Take a look at _this_."

Harry leaned forwards to study the device that George had placed on the table in front of him. It had a long, slender pole in the middle of it that blossomed at one end into what looked like an orange lily. An orange lily made of rubber, Harry deduced, after a quick brush of his finger along the edge of one petal. At the other end was a clear silver basin.

"Interesting," Harry said. "What is it?" He'd had to ask that question a lot since they picked up George. Things that were intuitively obvious to him didn't seem so to anyone else.

As always, George gave Harry a quick, wondering glance, as though he was feigning incomprehension, before his face grew vague and he nodded. "Good point, Fred," he murmured.

Harry winced. He _hated _it when George "talked" to Fred like that; it made him wonder whether he had done the right thing after all by bringing George into the war rather than leaving him quietly at home. But it hadn't caused any harm so far, and most of the time George returned from these little spells with all sense of the present fully intact, so Harry would ignore it.

For right now.

"It's a device that Summons certain objects," George said, stroking the lily with his own finger. The lily's petals moved, curling around the finger. With an amused smile, George pulled it out again. "Or classes of objects. Belonging to certain people. No matter what the distance." He stared at Harry.

Harry decided that he might as well laugh, since no one was with them right now to overhear. "Such as wands?" he asked. "The wands of all the Aurors who haven't joined up with us?"

George looked at him in what seemed to be genuine surprise. "How did you know I was going to suggest that?" he asked.

Harry laughed again. He felt giddy, and as if he could dance around the room without his feet touching the floor. "Because that's the first of the embarrassing things I thought of," he said. "It'll inconvenience the Ministry more than anything else, having to match their Aurors to new wands, but it'll also terrify them, since it shows that we can reach into the heart of their power and do something that shouldn't be possible by current magical theory."

"How did you know that it shouldn't be possible by current magical theory?" George demanded.

"I've been doing a bit of reading," Harry said with his own vague tone, and then moved on to other subjects before George could demand a better answer. "How soon can you have it ready?"

George nodded and touched the edges of the lily's petals as though that would give Harry an answer. "I'll have to test it first, of course," he said. "To make sure that we're not Summoning the wands of anyone who simply happened to be an Auror, and orient the Houndstooth to what _makes _an Auror in the employ of the Ministry. But it should be ready no later than tomorrow."

Harry shook his head and punched George in the shoulder. "Are we paying you enough?" he asked.

George had already lost himself somewhere in the design of the Houndstooth, prying apart the basin with what looked like a cross between a hammer and a wrench. "Just keep the materials flowing, that's all I ask for," he muttered. "Well, that and the time and freedom to work."

Harry nodded and left him alone, furiously tinkering. As he stepped out of what other people had already started calling "George's design room" and shut the door, he heard shouts from further down the corridor.

He approached that richly carved oaken door quietly. They had arrived at an Unplottable Manor that the Ministry had declared "lost" centuries ago when the last of its pure-blood owners died in an unsuccessful revolution, but which Jerome had read the files on and preserved a method of finding. Some of the old traps set by the original owners still lingered around the edges of doorframes. Harry checked twice for them before he peered through the crack along the edge of the door.

Ron was drilling several men and women who in some cases wore the robes of Aurors or Hit Wizards, but who had mostly adopted the "uniform" modeled on what Harry and Ron were wearing: brown robes that had lots of pockets and restricted movements less than the Ministry-issued costumes did, with convenient hoods and belts designed to carry potions vials. Auror Calliope Youngblood had brought along a store of dragonhide boots from her family, who owned a shop that made them, and a pair of them flashed beneath Ron's robes as he strode up and down across the front of the room.

He shouted. His students shouted back at him, but for the most part their voices weren't as strong, and Harry could make out Ron's instructions clearly.

"I don't want to hear about any _blood rivalries. _You'll work with people your families had feuds with, and you'll work with someone who's pure-blood if you're Muggleborn, and Muggleborn if you're pure-blood! Those little cliques that you want to form destroyed the Ministry-Youngblood, _straighten your wand out_-and made it into a place where no one can trust anyone else thanks to the factionalism-Catchers, _do you call that a Shield Charm?-_and murders are excused while innocents are condemned to Azkaban just based on who their parents were-Kindred, _defensive means defensive-_and that isn't going to happen to us. Understood?"

"I don't see why we have to learn all this defensive magic," said Olivia Kindred sulkily. Harry had worked with her several times, and remembered her as a good Auror with a tendency to attack before she did anything else.

"Because we're training you to work in groups of four-Weatherby, _eyes front-_rather than with partners-"

Harry smiled and stepped away from the door. Ron had come up with that idea, reasoning that groups of four who knew each other well and were encouraged to trust one another with less than the sometimes dangerous intimacy partners achieved would do well against the Ministry's tendency to form pairs in everything.

Everyone else was busy, and it was time for him to do what he'd come up with, to go back to his studies.

Harry swallowed and clenched one fist. What he wanted to do was still risky, and would depend a lot on what George could tell him and help him with.

But if he was right...

_If I'm right, the Ministry's Obliviators will be out of work entirely._


	5. Flight of the Wands

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Five-Flight of the Wands_

"Are you sure that you need to come into work with me, Auror Desang?" Hermione wondered if she should exaggerate the pout in her voice, and then decided it would do just fine. The Aurors were still a bit suspicious of her, though Hermione knew she was lulling them day by day. They would expect her to dislike having her movements restricted and a tail attached to her at all hours.

Desang gave her a faint smile. "I thought we were friends now, Hermione," she said. "Please call me Andrea."

Hermione didn't smile back, but turned around in the center of the corridor that led to her office and stared at her. The smile faded, and "Andrea" shifted. Hermione snorted. "You can't fool me that way. I never gave you permission to call me by my first name." She had considered doing so, and rejected the notion. Too much eagerness to help would increase the focus of the eyes on her.

Desang shook her head. "Was I wrong that you like me, or at least tolerate me better than you did? I'm not the one who took you captive, Madam Granger-Weasley. That was the friend who's doing his best at the moment to undermine the stability of the Ministry."

"Our own fears are doing that," Hermione said. "He hasn't harmed anyone so far."

"Do you think that the Ministry can withstand a competing threat with Potter's popular acclaim?" Desang's eyes had turned wintry. "I don't think so."

Hermione blinked. Once again, Desang had offered information without a price attached, and she wanted to look for it before she committed herself to any definite trade in exchange.

_Thinking and living like this is bloody exhausting._

"He still hasn't done much of anything," she said. "And perhaps he can offer an icon for people to rally behind, but he can't arrest criminals, or collect money, or distribute help, or do anything else that makes the Ministry valued. No, he _is _mad, and this insanity is going to run its course soon." She turned her head away and closed her eyes. "Now, can you _please _leave me alone at work today? You can stay right outside the Department. I'll be out for lunch."

"I've heard that you often don't eat, because you forget yourself in your dedication to your work," Desang said earnestly, the smile returning. "I'd rather go with you and make sure that you keep up your strength. Your life is hard at the moment, Madam Granger-Weasley. You need your health to fight off trauma and betrayal."

_I think you could be dangerous, under the right circumstances, _Hermione thought, and opened her mouth to give as polite a refusal as possible.

The world seemed to implode around her, a beam of orange light streaking past her hair and the air ringing with a loud noise like the fart of a cow. Hermione clapped her hands over her ears and tried not to shriek, which would add its own noise to the din. Instead, she flattened her back against the wall and watched, as closely as possible, what was happening.

The beam of orange light landed on Desang and formed a circle at her feet, which expanded like a pool of blood. Desang swatted, but of course her hand passed right through it. Hermione didn't roll her eyes in contempt, either, although she wanted to.

The orange glow grew brighter, and brighter, and then Desang's wand came soaring out of her pocket. She grabbed for it, but the light had already snared it like a rope and darted away down the corridor. Hermione chased it for a moment, to show willing, but both light and wand zipped out of sight.

A second beam appeared a moment later, less violent in color, but the only thing it did was touch the wall and inscribe some shimmering letters.

_THIS THEFT COURTESY OF FRED AND GEORGE WEASLEY._

Hermione put a hand to her throat, where she could feel her pulse beating. _Oh, Harry, you did it. You really did give him a reason to live again._

_HAVE A NICE DAY, _the light beam added before it winked out. Hermione was left trying to imagine the power and complexity of magic that could have passed through the Ministry's wards so effortlessly.

She turned to Desang, who looked so blank that Hermione wasn't sure she realized what had happened yet. Hermione reached out and took her arm, guiding her towards the entrance of the Department.

"Do you want me to contact the Minister?" she asked. "There must be-"

Then shrieks started breaking out from all over, someone ran past her down the corridor, and Hermione realized that this was much bigger than George and Harry deciding to inconvenience the Auror who was tracking her. The more she listened, and the more she asked panicked questions where she avoided eyes in case anyone around her could use Legilimency, the bigger the scope seemed.

_Oh, Harry. Did you come up with this idea, or did George? Either way, I'm sure it was George who invented the equipment necessary to complete it._

An Auror Hermione had never noticed before pushed into the corridor and shouted a blur of words at Desang. She started, then pulled herself out of Hermione's arms and hurried away without a second glance.

She didn't notice the crumpled memo that fluttered from her sleeve, either, where her wand probably would have kept it still most of the time. Hermione picked it up at once, flattened it out, and stuck it into her pocket. If someone had seen her, she could have claimed she was keeping it to give back to Desang.

But she had other motives, and her hands had gone clammy and her heart had gone fast.

She had noticed the word _necromancy _on it.

* * *

"Go as fast as you can," Ron murmured in Harry's ear, and also the ears of the two other people who had come with them, Catchers and a woman named Kelly Wheelwright. "Speed is of the _essence _here. No time to stop or slow down. No time to do anything but get what we came for and then leave again. And scatter the confusion that'll leave it uncertain what we actually came for, of course. Do you understand me?"

Harry joined the meek chorus of assent. His gaze was focused ahead, on Hogwarts's rising stone walls.

This place had been a home to him, the school where he learned, the battle site where he had defeated Voldemort, and the heart of the wizarding world as far as he was concerned. On the day that Hogwarts had finally reopened, after the damage from that last battle had been repaired, Harry had felt a tight stone of worry in his stomach melt.

He hated to think that they were raiding it, and especially he hated what McGonagall would think of him when she found out.

But he braced himself to do it anyway. No amount of whining would change their duty, or their need for the treasure that Hogwarts contained.

Ron gave a faint whistle. Another whistle answered from the other side of the building. The second group of four-Ron had taken to calling them quatrains, after a term he'd taken from Hermione-was waiting to act as a diversion and hit Hogwarts from the front. With luck, all the focus and excitement on _them _would put the second group completely out of everyone's minds.

Ron nodded impressively all around, and then they started trotting. Harry kept licking his lips as he moved. His head and his gut were both churning with what felt like a mixture of acid and Firewhisky.

From the front of the school came a bright pink flare that covered the entire nighttime sky, followed by a chorus of barks and howls, as though the quatrain there had unleashed a mixed pack of hounds and werewolves. Harry knew that it only _sounded _as though they had; all the members of that group had worked very hard on auditory glamours to hide their real purpose.

Ron grunted out the command, and the group surrounding Harry broke into a clumsy run. Harry tried to keep his thoughts away from _how _clumsy it was, with branches slapping them in the face and grass squelching underfoot, and his attention on the challenge that was coming up in front of them.

He saw from the corner of his eye, because he was watching for it, Ron's imperious nod. Harry lifted his wand and channeled as much power as he could down the center of it, praying to no one in particular that he wouldn't manage to split the phoenix feather core.

The power drew from his eyes and made them feel scratchy, from his bones and made them shiver, from his legs and made them feel weak. Ron caught him as he sagged, pulling him upright and murmuring encouraging words in his ear that Harry _needed _right then. He continued piling as much magic as he could into his wand, but not casting a spell, which was the difficult part.

The diversion in front of the school now involved immense numbers of shadowy brooms diving around the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw Towers, and students shouting, and the howling and barking joined by the deep-throated roars of lions and tigers. As Harry lifted blurring eyes, someone else set off a blue light that made the night glow like a sapphire. Professors were awake by now, and McGonagall's enhanced voice demanded to know what was going on. Harry smiled dazedly. The other quatrain was doing a good job of causing confusion, and Harry knew that the confusion would only increase when they launched their next trick.

"Harry!" Ron shook him sharply. "Focus!"

Right, he had to. Otherwise, the called magic would simply dissipate in harmless sparks and leaping images, earthing itself any way it could, and all the benefit that Harry might have got from it would be lost. He thrust one hand stiffly up and outwards, and his fingers spread.

As George had told him would happen when he suggested this tactic, all the magic promptly raced to the ends of his fingers and buzzed there.

"Go, Harry!" Ron was supporting him by now, leaning back as though the weight of Harry's magic made the world around them literally heavy. "Reach out and smash them!"

There were boulders just ahead, Harry thought dreamily. Great rocks that weren't part of Hogwarts's walls, but in another way were, surrounding them on the _outside, _supporting and sustaining them although no one knew they were there, or at least didn't usually pay attention to them. The wards. He reached out and touched the nearest one, and it sang a low, threatening song to him.

From the front of the school came the trumpeting of elephants. Harry lifted his eyes and saw a giant, shadowy one charging Hogwarts, coming straight through the wards like they weren't even there. He smiled. Knowledgeable observers would realize that that meant it _must _be an illusion, but knowledgeable observers weren't thick on the ground right now. He would bet the watch that Molly had given him that, by noon tomorrow, reports of mammoths or worse would be all over the front page of the _Daily Prophet._

"Mate, now!" Ron shook him so that his teeth rattled in his head.

"Not-yet," Harry said, gritting his teeth as the power surged in him. Like holding lightning, fuck. Like holding a storm, all the weight of howling winds and leaping rain and racing thunder in his head. "Have to time it for when the-elephant hits."

The illusion, growing stronger as the attacking quatrain directed the force of their willed belief at it, hit Gryffindor Tower with an enormous purple shoulder, half-there. The school shook.

At the same moment, Harry channeled the power through his wand and destroyed Hogwarts's anti-Apparition wards.

An explosion of light, dark green in color, mingled with silver and scarlet, yellow and blue and bronze, raced back towards him. Harry fell to his knees, crying out, his voice lost in the trumpeting and roaring that had already destroyed the silence. The ground rose beneath him, then sank and split. Ron dragged him hastily away from the forming crack.

"This way!" he shouted to Catchers and Wheelwright. "You need to follow me! Keep up!"

That was the only warning any of them got, as Ron started forcing Harry's feet to move faster than he had known they could. He swallowed, remembered the times that he had run from Harry-Hunting, and forced his feet to churn up the earth. The crack behind them stopped spreading with a ragged groaning sound, and then they leaped over something new and landed safely behind it.

"You remember?" Harry whispered to Ron, feeling his friend pull him close and hold him there, in the perfect position to Side-Along him.

"'Course," Ron said with a snort. "You don't forget something like that." And they blinked in and out of being, Apparating straight to the seventh floor of Hogwarts. Catchers and Wheelwright appeared behind them a breathless moment later, just when Harry was starting to worry that they hadn't remembered the coordinates, after all.

In front of them was the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy and his trolls. Harry turned around to face the opposite wall. He tried to stand up so that he could walk back and forth in front of it, but he nearly toppled over, and Ron rolled his eyes as he leaned Harry against the wall near the tapestry.

"As if you were ever going to be able to do this, mate, with all the effort you put into the destruction of those wards," he said. "Wheelwright, Catchers, watch him and club him over the head with your wands if he moves." And he began to pace up and down, his face worked into such a scowl of concentration that Harry didn't dare ask him if he was _sure _and wouldn't cast a Strengthening Charm on Harry. He watched the turn of the corridor that led to the stairs instead; danger was most likely to come from that direction if it arrived.

But the entrance appeared after a moment, a huge, ornate wooden door like the one that Ron and Hermione had put in front of their library at home. Ron froze, and Harry was sure that he was thinking of that and coping with even more memories than Harry. But he shook his head and yanked the door open by its brass handle a second later.

Harry gestured fiercely to Wheelwright, who nodded after she jumped in surprise and helped him up. Harry leaned to the side so that he could see into the room that had appeared.

It was an immense, cavernous place, even though the walls looked as if they were made of wood and not stone. Ron walked up to a pedestal that stood in the middle of the room. The pedestal was marble, and had carved snakes climbing it. Harry licked his lips and shook his head.

Ron picked up the book that lay on the pedestal and turned to Harry, face shining. Then he flicked open the cover of the book.

"Shite!" His voice was loud enough that Harry heard Catchers, still on guard and watching for intruders, draw in a startled breath.

"What is it?" Harry demanded, trying to walk closer. Wheelwright's grip had slackened, though, and he just slumped to the floor. She dived after him, whispering a horrified apology, and Harry jerked his head in a way that he hoped she would take as acceptance. He didn't have time for listening to her, not when his whole being was focused on Ron and the word he had spoken.

"It's written in some language that I don't even _recognize_," Ron spat. "It's not Ancient Runes, and it's not-it's not any of the European languages in a different alphabet, either!"

"Well, if they were in a different alphabet, you wouldn't know, would you?" Harry pointed out, his hope sinking for only a moment. George would invent a device that could read the book for them if he had to. "Bring it along anyway. We asked the Room for it, and it gave it to us. There's no law saying that such a big secret has to be easy to read."

Ron nodded as though reassured and lugged the book towards Harry; it was almost as wide as the span of his arms. Harry caught a glimpse of one flapping, open page, and the letters seemed to twist in front of his eyes. He blinked.

"I can read it, mate," he said a moment later. "What are you talking about?"

Ron stared at the book, then at him, and shook his head. "But it's not even _letters,_ Harry," he said earnestly. "It's all twisted and climbing things bending back on each other, like thorns or vines or snakes."

Harry glanced back at the pedestal covered with snakes, and shivered. "It might be a written version of Parseltongue," he said.

Ron stared at him with his mouth open.

"Anyway," Harry snapped, leaning back and gesturing for Ron to go out the door ahead of him, "the important thing is that we have it, and that's all we need."

When they stepped out into the corridor again, the door shut behind them with a hollow boom. Harry winced, wondering if the Room was angry with them, and then wondered why he was having such thoughts. He didn't think the Room cared what anyone used it for, or it would have done something about them and the things they'd used it for before this.

Catchers yelped abruptly. Harry tried to spin around and almost fell to the floor, caught just in time by Wheelwright's arms.

McGonagall stood behind them, wand out.

"Mr. Potter," she whispered, and her eyes moved on, picking them all out, filling Harry's body with icicles. "Mr. Weasley. Miss Wheelwright. Mr. Catchers." Her eyes returned to Harry. "I assume that we have _you_ to thank for the destruction of our wards?"

Harry nodded. He knew he should have been prepared better for an encounter like this, but he was honestly at a loss for what to say. He had thought that McGonagall would be out in front reassuring the students and combating the quatrain who actually seemed to be attacking, rather than in the school looking for whoever had brought down the wards.

"You have made all our students less safe." McGonagall moved a step forwards. "Those wards had endured since the days of the Founders, and Apparition in this school was forbidden for a _very good _reason." Her voice sharpened to the point where Harry could feel it like a blade against his throat. "Now our students will hurt themselves Apparating to classes and Splinching themselves unless we manage to put up new wards, which I don't anticipate happening in less than a month. Why did you do it, Harry? I never thought that you would want to hurt Hogwarts, when it gave you refuge, or the people who lived here."

A Stunner flashed past Harry's head before he could reply. McGonagall stiffened and dropped to the ground. Harry listened anxiously, but heard her breathing.

He turned around. Ron was still lowering his wand back to his side and shifting the huge book in his arms. He nodded to Catchers, who moved forwards and took the arm on Harry's other side.

"Why?" Harry whispered, lost in wonder. "You know that Stunners almost stopped her heart once, Ron."

"She was slowing us down," Ron said. He had his eyes on the ground and a choke in the back of his voice, but as they passed McGonagall, he looked up defiantly at Harry. "And it was four Stunners that hit her then. Mate, she was coming closer and using her voice to distract you. You keep forgetting. She was a member of the Order of the Phoenix. She knew how to fight. And she would have taken us captive if she could have."

Harry lowered his eyes in turn and nodded. He had to remember that they were fomenting a revolution here, he thought as Catchers and Wheelwright hustled him past McGonagall, with Ron following. Of course people would try to stop him, and of course he couldn't let his feelings interfere.

And if he didn't necessarily like what their revolution was doing to Ron, still, it was he who was responsible for the change.

They reached the point where Ron felt safe to give the book to Catchers and Wheelwright and let them transfer Harry over to him. Harry was proud that he could at least stand for this Side-Along, unlike the other one. Ron still looked long and hard into his friend's face, one hand rising as if he planned to lay it on the side of Harry's neck.

"You sure you're all right, mate?" he whispered.

"Now who's slowing us down?" Harry snapped, but he smiled at the same time, and Ron exhaled hard with relief as they whirled out, the secret to establishing their own Room of Requirement safe in the arms of the two former Aurors following them.

* * *

It turned out not to be that hard to find Potter's "revolution." Once Draco heard that a fairly large number of Aurors and Hit Wizards had deserted to find him, he knew the secret must be relatively simple.

And so it had been. Draco had simply located Luna Lovegood's residence-this week-by means of a few directional spells that the Ministry could have used if they didn't happen to require Dark Arts and a Malfoy's intimate knowledge, and asked her about where he could find Potter. Doubtless the others who had done so had access to clues about where she was that Draco didn't, but one kind of simplicity could substitute for another.

Lovegood had given him a cool, distant glance and said, "But why would _you_ want to find Harry?"

Draco met her eyes and told the truth in place of a lie, a trick he had perfected a long time ago, when hope had lived in his heart. It was the appropriate one to use now, when hope had come back. "They imprisoned my parents."

After a few seconds, Lovegood had nodded, and given him the Apparition coordinates.

Draco appeared in the middle of a thick copse of small trees, and had to fight his way out. He didn't bother to disguise his footsteps. A pair of women he would have recognized as former Aurors even if they weren't wearing the distinctive robes was waiting for him, and they aimed their wands with a synchronization that spoke of further training. Draco made his first note in the back of his head. He intended to carry no parchment. Hope would sharpen his memory to a crystal pen.

The one on the left recognized him; Draco thought she was a distant cousin to Millicent Bulstrode. She gestured for the one on the right to raise her wand higher and leaned towards him, squinting. "Malfoy? What are _you_ doing here?"

Draco spread his hands out. His mind sparked and danced. So did his blood. He was _here_; he could feel the distinctive push of Unplottable magic against his back.

Which meant that hope was here.

"I'm tired of my parents being imprisoned," he said. "I want to find someone who will help me change that."

Truth, all of it. Shining, unvarnished truth. Draco wondered if Potter would appreciate the irony when he learned about it.

_I've become a Gryffindor at last._


	6. Across an Abyss

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Six—Across an Abyss_

"Mr. Harry, sir!"

Resisting the temptation to tell Patricia Jackson that she sounded like a house-elf, Harry looked up from the book he'd been reading for several hours. To tell the truth, he'd be just as glad to have a distraction. The book had startled babbling about Fortuna's Wheel and the "directions" of magic, and Harry would have to read it a second time to make sure he understood. His eyes blurred just thinking about it. "Yes, Jackson?"

Jackson jerked to a stop in front of his table, her eyes wide. She looked as though she had run all the way from the borders of the manor's gardens, Harry thought, and his curiosity increased. Perhaps they had an enemy who had found them already, or a great number of Aurors had come in all at once.

"Malfoy is here, sir," Jackson said, when she could swallow enough air to do something with it besides breathe.

Harry surged to his feet, before he realized that Jackson must mean the younger Malfoy and not Narcissa. He shut his eyes and touched the side of his head. Yes, he needed some sleep if he had thought that Narcissa Malfoy would break out of Azkaban when she'd made such an effort to get there.

_I would have helped her if I could have._

The plea shattered and fell down, useless, the way it always had been. Harry opened his eyes and looked at Jackson. "Did he say what he wanted?"

Jackson shook her head. "I mean, he said that he wanted to see you and that he was tired of the Ministry imprisoning his parents. That was it."

Harry doubted that was the whole story. It was much more likely that Malfoy thought their revolution was ridiculous and had come to laugh at them. Joining it would resemble_ work._ Of course, if he had only come to laugh, it meant he had tricked the Apparition coordinates out of Luna, and Harry would have to talk with her.

"I'll come," he said, and stepped out of the room to follow Jackson through the corridors, listening to the shouts of training on the way, and muttering from George's design room, and wondering how long it would take to send Malfoy off.

* * *

Potter came out of nothingness behind the Auror who had recognized him. Draco watched the way the one left to guard him slumped when he appeared, her wand falling to a straight point at the ground, and thought how easy it would have been to kill her, then step forwards and curse Potter.

Of course, by then Potter would be moving. Draco controlled himself and settled for observing Potter as the Ministry Menace stalked towards him.

Potter looked taller and heavier than he had during the trials of Draco's parents, but given the years that had passed since then, Draco was not surprised. He didn't expect intelligence in the green eyes that scanned him, however, and quietly added a few more weapons besides the truth to his arsenal.

"Why did you come here?" Potter asked.

"Didn't she tell you?" Draco glanced at the former Auror who'd gone into the Manor, wondering if she had been too excited or frightened to try.

"She did," Potter said. "But I don't believe you. If this is a lark for you, have your laugh and go. If you intend to lead the Ministry to us, then you ought to know that none of the Aurors who are still loyal to them have wands right now, and their backup might be a bit scant." He had his wand handily half-concealed in his left sleeve, but now he shook it into his hand and aimed it at Draco's heart.

Hope flicked through Draco's mind again—Potter hadn't cursed him _yet—_but another emotion joined it, an emotion as bright and swift as a tropical fish. Draco didn't recognize it, and decided to live with it as he answered.

"The Wizengamot won't ever release my parents from Azkaban," he said, speaking the truth again. Even Summers had done no more than hint that Minister Clearwater would speak to them. "They won't let me visit. I have no idea whether my parents are alive or dead, mad or sane. I want to see them again, and I want their freedom. Failing that, I want a decent death for them. I think my chances for both are better with you."

"I wouldn't kill your parents," Potter said, as if that were the important part. Of course, to someone committed to thinking of himself as a hero, it probably was. "I don't kill prisoners. And I don't know what I'll do about Azkaban yet."

"You're telling me a lot for someone who you think came to laugh at you," Draco said.

Potter made a sharp gesture with one hand. "What makes you think that you'll be allowed to leave?"

Draco felt the bright emotion again. He didn't touch his wand, because he didn't think it the right tool for this situation. Any fool could cast a curse. His weapons were his words, and he smiled at Potter and shook his head. "You would kill me?"

"If necessary," Potter said. "Then again, there are other ways. There's no reason that another Malfoy couldn't become a prisoner, since it seems to be their common fate."

Draco lunged forwards before he could stop himself. The two former Aurors were in his way at once, and he surged back, tamping down his emotions again. He had been stupid to react like that.

Strangely, Potter watched him with less criticism now. "Sensitive about your parents," he said. "That's something I'll remember."

_Spin this into a way of confirming your story. _"I don't need you mocking them," Draco said softly. "If you intend to do that, then I have no hope left, I confess, and I might as well raid Azkaban myself." He turned on his heel.

Potter said nothing aloud, but a soft barrier of energy wavered into being in front of Draco. He put out a hand, passing it through the barely-there blue shimmer, and shrieked as the sensation of boiling water traveled violently across his fingers and down his arm.

He reeled back, holding his hand, his breath coming so fast that he couldn't disguise it, although he had intended to remain in control of all his emotions around Potter. What had that spell _been_? Draco had never heard of one that imitated it, and certainly none that looked so harmless. He examined his fingers gingerly, but there was no scarring and no sign of burning or redness or other marks. The spell had touched his nerves alone.

His senses stirred. To be around someone like that, to learn from him, to grasp his power and understand it and someday wield it against him…

But Draco snapped the fantasies short like a dry stick. He had given them up on the day that he realized his parents being in Azkaban was the great tragedy of his life, to work towards a resolution for or mourn, but never to ignore. It didn't matter what kind of magic Potter could use, except that Draco would need to learn how to counter it. Potter could give him nothing except in his fall.

"I told you, we don't intend to let you leave," Potter said. He sounded calm, not angry, a thing for Draco to remember. "Turn around, and let's discuss this."

Draco did, cradling his hand against his stomach. By now, Weasley had come out behind Potter, along with other people that Draco didn't know. He kept his eyes on Potter, though, because they all remained in the background and unless they started suddenly cursing him, Potter was still the most important figure here.

"What will you do with me?" Draco asked.

"I don't know yet," Potter said. "Will you willingly take Veritaserum, or do we have to hold you down and feed it to you?"

Draco felt his skin chill. He hadn't counted on Potter having access to that potion, but of course he should have, since Aurors used it and someone leaving the Ministry might well have brought along a store of it. There was a way to get past even that test, of course, but it would cost him in magical strength and Draco would prefer not to use it.

"I don't want to take it at all," he said, and strove for a tone of injured dignity. "_Obliviate _me and send me on my way if you must. And you'll lose all the gifts I could have brought you." He sharpened his eyes to watch any twitches or traces that crossed Potter's face in response to that.

Potter didn't oblige him by looking greedy, or alarmed, or anything but thoughtful. "That would be useful," he said. "But this is the test that every new recruit has to take, Malfoy, and the ones that we've found out as spies for the Ministry, we've simply dismissed. What can you offer us that would make it worthwhile to put up with your obnoxious presence here?"

"Dark Arts," Draco said. "Books. Potions knowledge. I doubt you have an expert Potions brewer among you." Nor was he one, in truth, but he knew enough to pick it back up quickly, and he could come and go from the Manor's Potions lab as he pleased.

Weasley said something hot and breathless, but Potter raised a hand to hold back his words. He kept studying Draco, so deeply that Draco wanted to shift his weight. But that could look as though he was guilty, so Draco stood in place and met Potter's eyes back.

_A Legilimens could gain all sorts of information that way._

But despite the reports in the papers—all of which he had read before he sought out Lovegood, so he could look as though he cared about something besides his parents—Draco didn't believe Potter had that skill. The ones who did, including himself, carried a certain deepness in their faces, and tended to keep eye contact to a minimum. Potter stared at people as if he was a hero, or an honest man.

Draco would be glad if that was the case. Honest men made easier prey.

"I won't know if the trade's enough until I see these books and see you brew a potion," Potter said abruptly. "But come along, and you can take the Veritaserum." He turned his back and walked towards the barrier of silence and shadow behind which the Unplottable territory was hidden, as though he never doubted Draco would follow.

Draco felt an intense longing to _give _him a source of doubt. If he could only confound Potter the Arrogant, surprise him, make him beg to accept Draco—

He destroyed the longing. It was a dangerous and dangerously powerful emotion, and surprised him. He hadn't thought he would feel that anymore now that he wasn't a schoolboy. He had to keep his focus on his parents, rotting away together in a cell, waiting for Draco to save them because there _wasn't_ anyone else.

He just nodded, for the benefit of the people around Potter more than Potter himself, since he didn't turn, and followed. Weasley hastened to close ranks in behind him, hissing as he went. Draco didn't turn a hair.

Inside his head, he began to recite the long, complicated incantation that would change his blood chemistry and allow him to resist the Veritaserum.

* * *

The testing of new refugees took place in a room of the manor that its old owners might have used as an intimate dining room. _Hermione would know the correct term, _Harry thought, and had to close his eyes for a moment.

_I wish she could be here._

Shaking his head, he turned around with the vial of Veritaserum that Wheelwright had brought in his hand and examined Malfoy closely. He sat in a chair on the other side of the large table that was the room's primary furnishing, two wands trained on him. He didn't seem to notice them. His eyes never blinked, his focus never wavered, and his hands never moved. Harry was impressed with his stillness.

He couldn't afford to be, though. He tipped three drops of the Veritaserum into a cup that they always used for it, but spelled clean between times. Hermione had warned them about that, saying too much Veritaserum could damage at least some wizards. Harry didn't want to damage anyone who had come seeking him.

_Even though I still don't understand why in the world _Malfoy _would be here._

He handed the cup to Ron, who had insisted on being part of the interrogation. Harry had hesitated, because Ron took Malfoy seriously in a way that he didn't take anything else, but Ron just stared at him. Harry couldn't refuse to let him hand the Veritaserum to Malfoy without showing that he distrusted him.

Ron took the cup with a nod and marched over to Malfoy. Malfoy opened his mouth. He continued to look calm, the calmest person in the room, even as Ron tipped the three drops onto his tongue, counting aloud as they fell.

Malfoy pulled his tongue back into his mouth and shut his eyes. For a long moment, he stayed that way. When he turned to Harry again, he looked exactly like someone affected by Veritaserum—glassy-eyed, half-dreaming, half-dozing.

"All right," he said, and Harry wondered if he had ever heard Malfoy say anything half so casual.

"Why did you come seeking us?" Ron demanded, before Harry could ask the question. He flashed Ron a cold look, and Ron flushed a little, but shrugged. Harry nodded. It was a reasonable question to ask first, and it didn't really matter which one of them asked it.

"Because I want my parents freed." Malfoy's voice sounded flat. Harry knew that people's voices were _supposed _to sound that way under the influence of the potion, but it never ceased to unnerve him. Harry waited, but nothing else happened, which he thought meant it was the truth.

He shot Ron a sideways glance. Ron was frowning, but he asked in a relatively neutral voice, "Why do you think Harry can do that?"

"I don't know," Malfoy said. "I hope that he might attack Azkaban someday. The Wizengamot will never free them." Bitterness creeping into his voice there, and Ron jerked his head like a snake smelling a rabbit. Harry leaped in before Ron could get too upset or seize on the emotion as a proof that the potion wasn't working. People _did _sometimes sound upset or fearful under Veritaserum if the emotion was strong enough.

"How great did you think the chances were, of my attacking Azkaban?"

"Great enough to seek you out." Malfoy's eyes stared back at him, glazed mirrors.

Harry sighed. Well, yes, perhaps that had been a stupid question. It was implied by Malfoy's answer to the previous question, at least. He thought a moment, then asked, "How did you find us?"

"I sought out Lovegood." Malfoy slumped slightly to the side, resting against the arm of the chair. For some reason, that made Harry more uneasy than the sight of his eyes. The Malfoy he knew would _never _sit like that. "She gave me the directions."

"Why did Luna betray us?" Ron demanded in a whisper to Harry, but Malfoy answered the question before Harry could.

"She didn't," he muttered, head rolling to the side and eyes fluttering wildly, as though he wanted to hold them open but hadn't the strength. "I found her with directional spells, and she judged that I was sincere and sent me to you."

"How did you know to find her in the first place?" Ron asked. "You're not an Auror, you're not a Hit Wizard, and I can't believe that you've been friends with someone who's friends with _us._" Harry nodded along with him. Those were questions that he should have asked at first, but he had let his sympathy with the way that Malfoy looked under Veritaserum catch up with him. He couldn't do that if he was going to be an effective questioner.

_Keeping my people already in the revolution safe comes before adopting any new ones._

Malfoy managed a laugh, though it was two notes only and promptly trailed off into the words he spoke next. "Anyone who read the p-papers could see that she must be a contact. She supported you too much. I found her with my spells, she judged me, and that's it." Abruptly he forced his eyes open and stared at Ron. "D-disbelieve me if you like, but I don't see how you can."

From the expression on Ron's face, _he _didn't think it was possible, either, Harry thought. He was half-glad of that. This interrogation had been spiky and uncomfortable for him in a way that it hadn't been during the others, probably because he had believed that most of the people seeking them out were sincere. But Malfoy…

Who could say why he was here? His parents were a reason, but Harry didn't know if they were the whole of it.

He let Ron handle the rest of the interrogation—his emotions made him unfit for it—and passed the time in thoughtful observation of Malfoy. Malfoy had changed only a little, he decided. It was more like he had been pared down by a blade until he reached the stage where he was the essence of the boy he'd been and the man his parents had probably wanted him to be. More pointy, more thin, more desperate.

_Desperate?_

Harry paused and frowned. Yes, the word had occurred to him for no good reason, but sometimes his instincts and his intuition spoke to him in such ways. He knew that he had to follow the line of the clue, at least, and he did so while Ron asked more and more personal questions, ones that Malfoy always answered with variations on the same truth: he wanted his parents out of prison and had come to seek help for them.

Desperation made Malfoy's case easier to understand. If he had no hope in the Wizengamot, as he kept insisting, then yes, he would seek out Harry, whose revolution he might hope would be a true revolution, from top to bottom, challenging the Ministry and also challenging those institutions the Ministry ran.

Hope might matter to him more than hatred.

Harry walked thoughtfully back to his own room when the interrogation was done. Ron would consult with those of the former Aurors and Hit Wizards who had known Malfoy, and then with George, whose ability to judge a lie was unsurpassed. Only if everything satisfied them would he bring the case to Harry.

Regardless of what they found—unless it was some massive hole in the workings of Veritaserum that Harry had never known existed—he thought he knew what decision he would make.

* * *

Hermione spent the rest of the day commiserating with Aurors and answering questions in Minister Clearwater's office. She said over and over again that she hadn't known what Harry was planning, that the existence of a device or spell that could snatch wands was a surprise to her, and that she thought Harry wouldn't do anything else for a while.

Then the news came of the raid on Hogwarts, and Hermione sat with her hands folded close in her lap, wondering if they would dismiss her as the Minister's office filled with agitated jabber, hoping they would. She needed some time alone to marvel and to investigate the contents of the note that had fallen from Desang's sleeve.

Instead, Head Auror Summers sat down in front of her and stared at her commandingly. Hermione stared back, fighting not to blink. Meeting the Head Auror's gaze always reminded her of staring into the sun. Hermione had been through several conversations with her already, mostly about why Ron had joined Harry, what he was planning next, and whether she had received any owls from him. (Thanks to Hector, Hermione could answer that last question with perfect truth).

Now, Summers said quietly, "I saw the message from the thieves. _Fred _and George Weasley. My sources have told me that Fred Weasley died in the Battle of Hogwarts, and the funeral records confirm as much. Do you have any idea why his name would appear now, on the walls of the Ministry?"

Hermione opened her mouth to answer—

And paused.

She hadn't exercised as much observation so far as a spy really should, but she thought that she could read something strange and new in the set of Summers's shoulders. Summers wasn't asking simply because she found the occurrence of the name puzzling. There was some other reason here.

Hermione touched the pocket where she had concealed the memo and went with her intuition, which her reason would have to catch up with later. "Well, madam," she said slowly, "I _have _heard certain rumors about that. And you know that the Weasley twins' cleverness was proverbial at Hogwarts."

"Yes," Summers said, her nose twitching like a hound's on the hunt. "I had heard that."

Hermione lowered her eyes and acted nervous and reluctant and scared, because that was what they would expect of her right now. "I never thought that one of them could be killed just by a falling wall," she said. "That was what they told us Fred died of, you know. But it seemed strange to me that no one objected, and that none of his friends attended the funeral." In reality, that was because everyone had their own funerals to go to and the Weasleys had wanted to bury Fred as soon as possible, for Molly's and George's sakes, but Hermione was wagering the conspiracy-obsessed Ministry wouldn't think of that. "What were they hiding? Why did they want to keep people away? It's worth thinking about."

"An empty coffin, perhaps," Summers breathed, her eyes directed at the far wall instead of Hermione's face. "Or a body that had been prepared hastily to look like his. Merlin knows there were plenty of bodies around after the battle at Hogwarts."

Hermione battled back her discomfort. She hated casting aspersions on Ron's family this way even more than she hated the Ministry doing it, but she knew, from the letters he'd written her, that he'd expected something like it. He had known the rest of his family could be in trouble when he chose to join Harry, after all. "Yes, there were," she said, and nothing else. She'd done enough. Let the Ministry come up with their own silly stories for the moment.

Summers seemed to focus on her again, and gave her a rare smile. "I'm sorry, Madam Granger-Weasley," she said. "I can understand how this must have shaken you. Most of us hoped that Auror Potter would do nothing but kick up a fuss for a few days and then surrender himself of his own free will. This trick shows us that he's more serious than we thought."

_You should have known that, _Hermione thought. _And calling him Auror in front of me when everyone knows he was sacked and you think him mad won't soften me. _But she lowered her head and nodded meekly.

"I'd like to have you answer a few more questions," Summers said casually. "If you'll follow me to my office, please?" She stood and swept the room with a cool gaze. "I think the Minister's office is becoming _extraordinarily_ crowded."

Hermione did as asked, heart pumping anxiously. She had done well so far, but she hadn't had a sustained interrogation from an Auror, either. They had gone more gently with Desang, and even with the ones who had interviewed her immediately after Harry's escape.

The memo crinkled gently in her pocket, stiffening her resolve even as it bent.

_If the Ministry has turned to necromancy, who knows what else they'll do? I have to resist them._


	7. Spy at the Beginning

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Seven—Spy At the Beginning_

The Unplottable Manor that Potter had chosen to make his headquarters had its flaws, Draco thought. For one thing, there was too much dark wood and not enough light. That made its doors and ceilings feel heavy and oppressive, and Draco wanted to gasp in whenever he passed from a room that didn't have windows to one that did. But he reckoned that Potter hadn't built the Manor, so he couldn't really blame him for that.

No, it was what he did, and didn't do, with the Manor that mattered.

The first thing Draco saw was that there was no guiding sense of purpose to this "revolution" Potter had initiated. He had said in the papers, or at least the papers had claimed he'd said, that he'd started it because he felt the condemnation of Muggleborns was unjust, while pure-bloods got away with murder.

(Draco, with two pure-blood parents in Azkaban for crimes that hadn't _mattered _in the larger sweep of things or had never been committed in the first place, was more than usually well-prepared to resist the pull of that rhetoric).

But no one talked about that. They seemed to assume that everyone already believed it, and needed no further persuasion. They didn't even discuss plans that would include attacks on pure-blood families and rescues of Muggleborns from the horrible clutches of the Ministry. They trained for a general war instead and worked with magical artifacts that no one would let Draco near or describe when he was around.

Draco snorted as he leaned back against the headboard in the bedroom he'd been given, tapping his knee idly. Perhaps his first report to Summers could consist of, "No real threat. Here's the Apparition coordinates. Swarm down on them and destroy them now."

But he had observed the reactions of the Aurors with Summers, if not Summers herself, who was better at hiding her emotions than Draco had thought she was in their first interview. They had an almost superstitious dread of Potter, and they would go on fearing him until someone destroyed him. Draco knew he could send them everything they needed and they would still hesitate to go into battle, relying on Potter's luck or prophecy or whatever it was that had let him defeat the Dark Lord in the first place to save him.

_All right. So I have to do something else._

And based on what he had said when they first interviewed him, Draco knew exactly what it should be.

* * *

"Thank you for your cooperation, Madam Granger-Weasley. You may go back to work now."

Hermione gave Auror Summers a wan smile and stepped out of the cell they'd kept her in overnight, stretching her arms over her head and rubbing the small of her back. The cell hadn't been in Azkaban or even the Ministry's lowest level that most resembled the prison; it was an ordinary holding cell for the criminals awaiting trial. They'd given Hermione a bed and a light and even books.

Nonetheless, she knew it for an opening move in psychological warfare. They had wanted to make her reconsider her stance if she was really part of the rebellion or still secretly loyal to Harry. Time alone in a place with no windows or doors could make someone do that.

But not Hermione, not with the memo still in her pocket and the conversation she'd overheard from the Aurors who guarded her door. (Honestly, what kind of Aurors were they when they didn't even cast a charm against someone overhearing them on the cell door? Of course, since Harry had taken their wands, that was probably difficult.)

"Thank you, Head Auror," she said, and moved away slowly up the corridor, resisting the urge to look back over her shoulder. That would probably make her look too dramatic. But if she acted quiet and half-broken for a few days, that should at least convince them that they were on their way to convincing _her_.

_Keep your head in the midst of this, _Hermione reminded herself. _Don't lose it because you're so caught up in the deceptions and tricks that you and other people are playing on each other. _

She finally leaned against the wall, when she thought she was alone, and took out the memo from Desang's sleeve. Since no one had come looking for it so far, Hermione didn't think it'd been missed.

_To All Aurors, _said the memo, in Gillian Clearwater's powerful hand,

_You are herewith ordered to counteract any and all rumors of the Ministry using necromancy that you hear. Our fragile unity will be shattered if anyone comes to suspect that these are true. If you have need for more information, come to the Deep Caves._

Hermione crumpled the memo up again, her heart beating so fast that she had to close her eyes. A day ago, those words would have meant nothing to her, other than as a source of teasing information. It was all very well ordering someone to counteract rumors, but did that mean that the Ministry was using necromancy, or not?

But the conversation she'd overheard last night outside the door had told her where the Deep Caves were, and what they were.

_Nothing like going to see for myself._

* * *

"Potter. I wanted to talk to you."

Malfoy's pretentious, arrogant voice slithered down Harry's spine like a spider made of oil. Harry grimaced and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his neck. Just because he had agreed to let Malfoy join the rebellion didn't mean that he had any significant love for him. And Malfoy intruding into the time of day when Harry was reading most intensely and weaving his plans snapped the precious threads of his concentration.

"What about?" he asked, not turning around yet. If this was going to be a waste of his time, then Harry would simply send Malfoy away and endeavor to recover the deep mood that had consumed him a moment before.

"Something important." Malfoy walked up to the edge of the table and perched there, staring down at him with eyes that looked hungry.

Harry shook his head. He was tired of generalities, especially because, if he was right, then the nature of what he wanted to do would require a lot of specific details that he would have to learn, and remember, and keep focused in his head. But he couldn't explain that to Malfoy without explaining a plan that he still wasn't sure of, so he put aside the book and focused on Malfoy. "Fine. What is it?"

Now that he had Harry's attention, Malfoy seemed suddenly unsure. He turned his head away and frowned. Harry rapped his fingers on the table and looked longingly back at the book. He wished that Hermione was here so they could sure a bit of a laugh over that, that Harry should ever be desperate to go back to _reading_.

"I can brew potions for you," Malfoy said quietly. "But I prefer to know to what end they're being put."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Well, of course. It would do no good if we asked you to brew a certain potion and you didn't know what we wanted to use it for, would it? You might accidentally brew something dangerous."

Malfoy turned around and stared at him. "_That _wouldn't happen, Potter," he said, sounding somewhere between wounded and disgusted. "I'm an expert. I would never create something dangerous unless I meant to."

"I'll keep that in mind," Harry said dryly. "But otherwise, I don't know what you mean. Of course I would give you specific instructions before I asked you to brew anything. Right now I don't need you to do that, hence the lack of specific instructions."

Malfoy bowed his head and took a long, deep breath, as if he had to force tainted air out of his lungs. Perhaps he did. Harry didn't have the impression that Malfoy was going to adapt to living with them easily. He watched him, and apparently Malfoy had managed to get himself under control, because he swallowed heavily and then continued.

"I meant that I need to know the end goal of your revolution," he said. "What will you be using my potions for? Will you be attacking the Ministry? What about people like me? I don't want to use them against my friends."

Harry leaned back in his chair, staring at Malfoy thoughtfully. Malfoy shifted position twice before Harry decided to speak again. "I'm afraid a certain amount of that is inevitable, Malfoy," he said. "Of course some of them are going to hate you for coming to us in the first place, and they'll fight for the Ministry. You might have no choice about going after them if you want to defend your own life, and the goals that I hope you'll adopt as your own."

Malfoy's left hand curled into a claw. "And what are those goals?" he asked. "_Exactly._"

"Oh, that," Harry said, a bit blankly. "I thought everyone knew. We're going to attack the Ministry and force them to stop arresting Muggleborns for crimes that they're perfectly willing to let pure-bloods get away with."

"There has to be something larger than that," Malfoy insisted. "Or you would have started a reform movement within the Ministry, not a revolution."

Harry snorted. "Not really," he said. "I was hardly going to start a reform movement when I knew that everyone would be waiting for it to fail, or that everyone within the Ministry would be looking to destroy it, would I? This is what I want, and I'm going to make sure that the Ministry, by the time the revolution is finished, thinks twice about using people as scapegoats in order to satisfy a few other people." He snorted again, looking into the distance as he thought again about the Donner case. "Especially when we have a fucking _confession _and they still insist that, oh, well, there's the possibility that Imperius is being used or a spell exists that no one has ever heard of to force confession and which can't be detected like the Imperius."

"That didn't happen," Malfoy said.

"I worked on the case where it did," Harry said. He reached over and picked up the book. "Are you going to say anything important? We can still _Obliviate _you if you don't want to brew potions for us or fight against your friends, you know." _Although probably not for much longer._

"You don't understand," Malfoy said. "I don't see how the goals that you're pursuing lead to that end goal."

"So far, we're fighting defensively," Harry said. He wondered why Malfoy hadn't figured this out on his own. At least it probably meant that Ron couldn't complain about Harry revealing the information to him. _Probably. _"We needed to secure shelter and we needed to make sure that our enemies couldn't attack us immediately. We'll start doing offensive things soon."

"Like what?" Malfoy leaned forwards.

Harry smiled. "No need to tell you when we're still discussing it," he said pleasantly. "That would ruin the surprise. But if you wanted to help, you could brew us a potion that would shelter us from sight and the Ministry wards."

Malfoy stood up abruptly and left again. Harry had the feeling that he hadn't got what he came for, but that was hardly Harry's problem. Malfoy should have thought harder and longer about joining a revolution if he really wanted different answers.

* * *

Hermione cast an auditory glamour that ought to muffle her harsh breathing and the beating of her heart, and then stood tall in front of the mirror and examined her face. She had to cast a few more touches to darken her hair and make her eyes wider, but at last she was satisfied. It ought to look like Auror Desang was visiting the Deep Caves.

It _ought _to.

Hermione touched the slender spellbook in her robe pocket that she was relying on to protect her if it turned out that someone suspected her, and then stepped out of the house and into the sputtering rain that had lasted for the past five hours. She drew her cloak close around her and shut her eyes.

No Apparition coordinates had ever given her so much trouble. Well, that only made sense, Hermione thought, as her mind churned and bubbled and she had to clap her teeth shut against the impulse to scream and laugh at the same time. She had been given those coordinates freely by other people or learned them herself, rather than putting them together from the disjointed pieces of an overheard conversation.

Pictures of gaping cavern entrances, a high mountain slope both below and overlooking them, a grey sky like the one that threatened right now hanging above it all…

Hermione felt the squeeze of Apparition, and could only hope that it would take her to where she wanted to go. She landed with her head spinning so hard that it was long moments before she could lift it and look about her.

Yes. She was on the slope of a higher mountain than she had ever seen. She didn't know exactly where she was, only that it was somewhere in Britain, because inter-continental Apparition wasn't possible. Probably somewhere in Wales, she thought, to calm her heartbeat. She took a few steps towards the nearest cave.

Two wizards appeared in front of her. Hermione halted, looking at them, and was glad for the last glamour she'd used. She didn't want to look as though she was nervous in front of guards as stern as these.

"What are _you_ doing here?" demanded the one on the left. Hermione glanced at him quickly, but didn't know him; she was sure that she would have remembered those intense grey eyes if she'd ever seen them. And he couldn't be an Auror, given the wand he was pointing at her. "You visited last week."

"Matters have changed," Hermione said, and was glad, too, for the long conversations she'd had with Desang that had enabled her to get the voice right. "Or why would I have this?" She held up her wand.

The wizard examined her more closely. He stood taller than she did, but Hermione had long since decided that she wasn't going to let herself be intimidated by something like that. Instead, she stood there as if bored, and a reluctant smile pulled at his lips, finally. He stepped back and gestured her forwards with a sweep of his head. The other wizard glanced at him, but vanished back into the caves when the man gestured.

"You could have _warned _us you were coming, you know, Andrea," he said chidingly, reaching out to grasp her hand.

Hermione reminded herself just in time not to flinch. The first name, and the way that he planted a kiss on the back of her knuckles, implied a different sort of relationship than the one she'd thought obtained here.

"No, I couldn't," she said. "You have no idea how mad things have been lately. I barely got away." She looked after the man who had left and had to make a wild guess about the doubt in his eyes and the relationship he had to Desang. "_He _won't tell?"

The wizard laughed. "You know that John adores you as much as the rest of us do! No, he just takes his job seriously, that's all."

_Useful information, _Hermione thought, and tucked it away in the back of her mind. She took a brisk step towards the caves, and the wizard walked with her, only letting go of her hand when he had to dismiss a ward of some kind.

"How _did _you get a wand?" he asked. "The last thing we heard, Potter, Merlin rot his bones, had taken all the wands from Aurors who were still loyal."

Hermione hid a shiver and wondered how literally the "Merlin rot his bones" was meant. "I was chosen for a special task," she whispered. "The Minister made sure that I was first in line for the wands when they started rematching Aurors with them."

"What task?" The wizard gave her an encouraging glance. "You know that's the sort of thing that you can tell me, Andrea."

Hermione took a deep breath, again, and shook her head. "There's so many traitors," she said sadly. The wizard made a swift movement, and she looked at him. "Not you. But even the notion that you're carrying a secret for someone could make you a target. I don't want to do that." She smiled at him gently.

The wizard walked stiffly for a few more steps, and then he sighed. "Damn you, you're right," he muttered. "We still don't know how Potter got to so many wizards and Aurors, after all. Maybe he read their secrets right out of their heads. It's better to make sure that as few people know as possible."

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment as they stepped across the threshold of the cave. She had to swallow both her fear and her gratitude that her lie had gone over the way she intended it to.

"Paul?"

They seemed to be addressing the wizard beside her. He nodded to Hermione and kissed her on the cheek. Hermione hid another shiver, partially out of pity that he thought it was Desang he was kissing and partially because his lips were cold. "Sorry, dear," he said. "Another bloody meeting. They _can't _improve that latest summoning circle." He hurried deeper into the cave, calling out as he went, but Hermione lost track of his voice and what he was saying as she turned and surveyed the cave in front of her.

She had suspected what was happening. Of course she had. That didn't make the reality that exploded on her like a dropped firework any better.

Inferi marched through the cave, practicing clumsy fighting routines, or leaned against the wall, staring with soulless eyes. In one corner hung several dozen skeletons, and the stare of their eyes was in some ways worse. Circles smoked on the floor. Numerous chants resounded in Hermione's ears.

She gritted her teeth—this was no time to faint—and began to move forwards as if she knew where she was going, vaguely following Paul. All the while, the concealed camera under her cloak snapped and muttered to itself.

* * *

Draco seriously considered leaving the manor after his conversation with Potter. Despite Potter's claims that he could keep Draco in one place and the evidence of his magic, Draco considered himself free.

There was _nothing _here. Potter didn't have a plan, he didn't understand the implications of what he was doing, and that meant he could be no serious threat to the Ministry. The moment the Ministry figured that out, they would simply attack and halt the spying, and there went Draco's hope of freeing his parents.

Draco closed his eyes at the last thought and dug his fingers into his eyes. No. He could not give up on his parents, no matter what happened.

Which meant that, if the Ministry wouldn't free them and Potter had no plan, Draco had to seek out someone who would help him. Or _create _that person, if they didn't actually exist. He sat up at the thought and stared at the wall of his room. Someone had carved a circle there long ago and adorned it with a face.

Yes, why not create one? Potter had the resentment against the Ministry and the power that Draco needed. More people would flood in to join him. He _could _be poised and sent in a new direction, or a wider one. Draco was wise enough to know that Potter would never abandon his goals completely. Justice simply called too strongly to a Gryffindor.

But he could be persuaded that there were other people in need of justice. Draco _knew _it, as strongly as he knew that he couldn't give up.

So. He would stay with Potter for the moment, send his reports to the Ministry in case they still meant to keep their promise of helping him, and work to change Potter's mind. There were a number of tactics that he could use to do so, knowledge unfurling in Draco's mind and stretching new tendrils to the light like a growing vine.

The best one, he couldn't choose yet, but he would begin something that would be the first step in any one of them. He would go and brew the potion that would convince Potter that he should be trusted, listened to, and eventually given what he wanted.

Draco was smiling as he stepped out of the room to seek the potions lab that he knew George Weasley spent the most time in. He knew that he would have to share space and time and ingredients with the crazy bastard, but that hardly mattered. Everyone who liked could look at his potion and make inquiries about what he was brewing. None of them could understand it.

As it happened, he bumped into someone as he left the room, and the person gripped his arm to steady it. Draco blinked and found himself looking down at George Weasley.

Weasley nodded to him and said, "Ah, yes, just the man we were looking for." Draco looked around instinctively, but saw no one next to him. Perhaps Weasley thought he was a king, Draco decided cautiously. From what he knew of the twins' arrogance when it came to their time in school, Draco didn't think that was impossible.

"Come with us," Weasley said, and swept down the corridor. "We could use your help with the next device we're working on."

Since they were going to the lab anyway, Draco didn't object, but followed meekly along. He could work on the potion in a few hours.

And who knew what the Ministry might consider sufficient payment for the glimpse of one of the Weasley twins' infernal machines and its innards?

* * *

Harry faced the far wall and licked his lips. This was—dangerous. Difficult. He still wasn't sure that he understood the book completely even after all the time he had spent reading it. He was probably stupid to be trying this.

None of that kept him from lifting his wand, sucking in enough air to make him feel lighter on his feet, and then snapping his hand towards the far wall. "_Reducto!_" he snapped.

The inner wall collapsed. Harry winced as he watched the falling and rumbling blocks. He had forgotten how strong he could make a Blasting Curse when he wanted. He ignored the feet that pounded towards the door and the fists that pounded on it. He had put up wards that would take them forever to get through, and he hadn't hurt anyone.

He closed his eyes, envisioning the page of the book that told him the most about the spells that he wanted to perform. It was a picture of Fortuna's Wheel, done in so many colors that the only ones Harry could remember accurately at first were the eye-catching green and gold. But he focused his mind, and they came into being: the single scarlet spoke, the one that shone like a sapphire, the white gown of the blindfolded woman who stood beside the Wheel, and more.

Holding onto the image, he forced it deep, down into his mind, and held it there, too, thrumming through his veins, the way he'd held onto the magic that he'd used to blast his way through Hogwarts's wards. Then he let it all go in a spiral through his wand, not so much magic—it didn't have an incantation associated with it, even a nonverbal one—as a force. It spread through the air in front of him. When Harry opened his eyes, he could feel it there, although he couldn't see it.

He smiled and flicked his wand again. "_Reducto!_" he cried.

This time, nothing happened. Harry tried several more times to cast the Blasting Curse, and again and again, power failed to rush up his arm and out his wand. Harry sagged back against the table and shut his eyes, still ignoring the confused shouts from outside his door.

He had taken away his own ability to perform the Blasting Curse, a spell he had decided to sacrifice because there were plenty of others he could cast.

If he was right, and the procedure would work on other people in the same way…

There would be very little that could stop them.


	8. Before the Fragmentation

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Eight—Before the Fragmentation_

Draco stepped out of the potions lab, his completed potion in the vial, and paused. There was a new atmosphere to the house. And that was the best way he could put it, he promptly thought back to his own complaining instincts—they complained in his father's voice—that wanted him to define what he was feeling more clearly.

He _couldn't _define it. That was the point. His mind buzzed and his skin crawled with the sensation that things were different.

He knew how dangerous it could be to reveal to anyone else that he'd felt it, especially if it was something that he wasn't supposed to notice in the first place. So he fixed his eyes forwards and trekked towards his room again, all the while keeping his ears and nose poised to notice concrete evidence. At moments like this, when he was trying to sense an approaching storm, those senses served him better than sight.

Whispers. He heard whispers. The doors that had opened on rooms echoing with shouts and grunts of pain earlier that day now opened on an endless series of soft voices that sounded like the sea. Men and women wavered back and forth, and although he couldn't see them, Draco imagined nods and charged, significant looks.

The smell of sweat. Even as he scented it, however, Draco doubted that it was really there. Instead, it was a tale that his mind told itself to explain the subtler operation of perceptions far beneath the surface, perceptions that might not have even a name. He placed a hand against his brow for a moment, feeling faint, and then continued with a shake of his head.

Sweat, as though someone had been training hard. Scarcely unusual in this place; Draco had seen already that Potter's "revolutionaries" trained too hard, working themselves up to fight battles that would never come, never challenge them.

But there were other reasons to sweat. Fear. Anger. Sex.

Excitement.

As soon as that name blazed into his thoughts, Draco knew it was the right one. He couldn't have explained his conviction before the Wizengamot or anyone else who would demand strict truth and answers. But his father would have granted him the right to act based on it. His mother would have said that it was prudent to avoid going to a party because of it, or to attend one he'd not planned on gracing with his presence.

Draco paused outside the door of his room and closed his eyes for a flicker of time that he doubted was visible to anyone else. But this time, he needed it, unlike the earlier pause.

Merlin, but he _missed _them so much.

That was no one's business but his own, however. He made up for it by striding into his room and depositing his potion—the one Potter had asked for, the one that would make them invisible to Ministry Aurors and wards—on his desk. Then he reached into a hidden pocket inside his robe and pulled out the first of the sheets of parchment that Summers had given him.

Draco smiled a bit. These parchments were a truly impressive achievement, and he spent a moment touching them and admiring the Ministry that could produce them. They were slick and gleaming, red-gold when you turned them to the light but looking like normal paper otherwise. Draco had a number of lies prepared in case anyone found them and questioned him, but he doubted the necessity of those lies. He didn't plan to ever be apart from this particular set of little beauties.

He wrote the basic facts of the potion that Potter had asked him to brew into his letter, as well as the interrogation and the obsessive amount of time that Potter seemed to spend with old books. The book that Draco had glimpsed was called _Fortuna's Wheel, _and he had to admit that he couldn't see what Potter would want with it. It was the insane ramblings of a witch named Mathilda Bonchance about the nature of magic and how she thought it manifested in the world. Since her theories had been proven wrong a long time ago, it was now only used in history courses.

But someone at the Ministry who knew Potter better than he did might know what it was about, so Draco included it—along with the details of the experiment that George Weasley had had him perform, although the experiment consisted of gathering seeds and then separating them into two piles and made no sense to Draco.

Then he folded the parchment precisely, twice, and turned to the fire already burning on his hearth. When he was sure that the flames were flicking hotly enough above the fire's piled heart to sustain the magic he needed, he tossed the folded parchment into the fire.

There was a momentary glow of red-gold, and then the letter vanished, without even ashes to mark it. Draco sighed. Summers had told him that the parchment would return to the place in which it was made: a brazier in a protected location, where someone would always be on hand to watch and rescue the unharmed message from the fire. Draco had to admit that it was a lot less risky than sending owls.

_And if I decide that I want the Ministry to lose, then I can lie to them more easily._

He turned away and picked up the invisibility potion again. It was time to seek out Weasley and see if he could learn the secret of that machine he was building—and after that, Potter, to learn the source of the sweat.

* * *

"You're—insane," Ron said. He had a hand on the side of the table in Harry's room. Harry thought, sometimes, that it was all that was keeping him upright. He had been staring with that particular shocked look on his face since the moment when Harry explained what had happened in his room earlier that day.

"No, I'm not," Harry said evenly. This was a perception he had known he would have to fight, and that was one reason he had started with Ron, who trusted him and loved him and _must_ eventually believe him—although hauling Ron abruptly out of the training session he'd been engaged in leading meant that the manor buzzed with rumor. "I can show you."

Ron took a step backwards. "I'd _like _you not to deprive yourself of the ability to cast any more spells, thanks," he snapped. "Unless you're lying."

Harry smiled. Ron thought he was telling the truth even if he didn't know how or why Harry would do something like this, and that was an encouraging start. "I solemnly swear not to take any more spellcasting abilities away from myself," he said. "But I can show you with the one I already removed." He faced the table and flourished his wand at it with enough emphasis to make Ron duck out of the way again. "_Reducto!_"

The wand never even shivered in his hand. Harry had wondered what it would feel like to perform this spell in front of someone else, without the initial burst of excitement to sustain him. What it felt like was nothing, as though he was speaking a nonsense word or an English one that couldn't power a spell. The wand sat in his hand.

After a moment, Ron said cautiously, "You might have mispronounced the spell, mate. Or maybe it's your wand."

Harry tossed the holly wand to Ron, who caught it and then looked as if he wished he hadn't. "Try with it, then," he urged. "You can use this." He tossed a handful of parchment that bore useless notes from useless books into the air."

"_Reducto!_" Ron called, and the air shivered around him as the parchments blew apart into a flurry of paper flecks. He stood in the middle of them, his mouth open, until he caught Harry's eye and shut it hard enough to almost catch his tongue in his teeth.

"You see?" Harry asked quietly, and reached out for his wand. Ron tossed it back to him, his breath shallow.

"This means," he began, and then stopped.

"Yes," Harry said. "I'm going to cast it on other people—on anyone who's allied with the Ministry and the Wizengamot. And I think the first thing to go will be Memory Charms, followed by the Imperius Curse, They won't be able to use them anymore. _That _ought to reduce their ability to make up lies for the trials and have them believed."

"It would," Ron said. "It would." Then he hesitated, eyes clouding.

"Go ahead," Harry told him. He wouldn't be a good leader at all if he refused to listen to the objections of people who knew more than he did.

"I think we might face rebellion in our own ranks if we tried to use this spell," Ron said slowly. "It feels a lot like taking magic away from other people, making them Squibs. There's little that's feared more among pure-bloods. And I know that not all of the people following us are pure-bloods," he added, before Harry could say it. "But that's the reaction _they _would have, and others would probably agree. I feel a chill myself, here." He laid his hand over his stomach. "Is this a good thing to introduce into the world, Harry?"

"It's the only thing I can think of that will actually alter the nature of the game," Harry said. He wished that Ron could share his joy without a care, but he also knew that Ron was giving him the best advice he could. "We might win the war, but it would be so _easy _to become as bad as they were, only this time we would be giving the break to Muggleborns and going hard on the pure-bloods when they committed a crime. I've read some Muggle history, and revolutions become the regimes they replace. That's not going to happen to us. The only way we can make sure of that is by placing certain magic beyond _everyone's _reach. We'll use it on our enemies first, but I want to show them that I'm perfectly willing to use it on myself as well."

Ron watched him with a troubled gaze, still. "Do you think that's not going to be enough?" Harry added.

"I don't know how you'll do it," Ron said. "I don't know if it's a good idea to get rid of Memory Charms when they're sometimes used in Healing and to protect us from Muggles. I don't know that altering the whole nature of reality is a good thing."

"I don't know for _certain_, either," Harry said. "I know that those two spells are the ones most often used to protect pure-bloods who are actually murderers and torturers. And what can we do if not change the nature of magic so as to force them out?"

He waited. Ron struggled in silence for a moment. "The Imperius curse is illegal," he said at last.

"But the Aurors got special dispensation to cast it during the first war with Voldemort," Harry reminded him. "And it's used anyway by people who won't get in trouble because they can bribe the Wizengamot." He leaned forwards, feeling for a moment as if he was two people, the one passionately interested in convincing Ron, the other watching from a distance to see what happened when the conviction began to cross Ron's face. "They don't care. They break the law, or make a tool of it for their own ends. I want this to _stop. _This is the only way I can think of."

Ron's eyes slid away from his, and he nodded at last. "Yeah, mate," he whispered. "I reckon it is."

"If you think of another way, let me know," Harry said gently. His history reading had included plenty of stories about leaders who went mad with power, too. He would keep away from that as best he could, though it might not be entirely avoidable. "This seems like a terrible weapon. But I don't know what else to do."

Ron squeezed his hand in silence and slipped out of the room. Harry half-expected him to turn around and offer one more caution; he had never said that he thought this was a _good _idea, after all, only acted as if he wouldn't oppose it.

But he didn't.

Harry looked down at the book and swallowed. The technique it described was hard. Fortuna's Wheel was one way of intertwining oneself with the magical world, which the book said should be pictured as a still wheel, only turning at the whim of chance. But if one focused hard enough on one incantation, then one could turn the wheel for _that _piece of magic, for oneself.

Harry's hand lowered and he brushed his fingers over the still pages.

One might be able to _add _magic, as well.

* * *

Hermione leaned against the wall of her house and shivered. Then she shivered some more. Then she stood up and cast the _Finite _that would disturb her glamour and bring her back to looking like herself, instead of Desang. She wasn't sure that she could take a moment more of _that_.

The photographs she'd taken in the Caves required a short time to develop. She looked away from them and spent only a few moments deciding where to send them. Some—the replicas or poorer copies—could go to Harry, but although he could use them, he didn't have the means to publicize them immediately. Most of them should go to Luna and the _Quibbler._

_They're using necromancy. They really are._

Hermione looked longingly towards the shower. She wanted to jump in and scrub off the grey film of dust and rot that seemed to have settled on the skin. But she shook her head as she remembered what else she had to do. If too many people remembered or thought that Desang had gone into the Deep Caves with a wand, then the trail would lead too clearly back to Hermione. She'd _Obliviated _everyone at the Deep Caves who got close enough to see her face—easy enough when there were so few of the living there and many more Inferi—but she also had to lay down a false trail for an easier suspect.

She gave a faint smile as she set about writing the letter. _This _part would be a positive pleasure.

* * *

George's mind hummed as he bent over the latest toy that Harry had set them to producing—or, well, given them permission to produce. George was conscientiously considering the fact that Harry didn't know what it did yet. But if he did know, he would have approved.

_Big changes coming, little brother, _Fred whispered in his ear.

George nodded and hoped that he didn't look too ridiculous with his tongue sticking out between his teeth while he carefully levered the next bit of silver into the machine. He had chosen a wheel for this design, both because it would be convenient for what they wanted to accomplish and because Fred had shown him a dream last night with a constantly turning wheel in the background. Fred hadn't told him what it _meant_, though. Stupid blighter. Thinking he could keep secrets just because he was dead.

_Not just because of us, _Fred said. _But because of Harry._

George looked up and in the direction the voice had come from. Fred didn't appear, but he didn't, often. Seeing him was different from hearing his voice, because then George was seeing hallucinations. "Do you think we should invent something to—"

_Help keep him sane? _It was even easier for Fred to complete his sentences now that he wasn't there anymore, but inside George's mind. George grinned. Fred waited a few moments, then said, _We would have to understand his mind—_

"Better than we do now," George said, mostly to show that he could finish sentences, too, if he wanted to. "Yeah, I agree. But that's no reason not to think about it."

_How many _other _things are we thinking about?_

"Loads," George said happily, and bent over his wheel again. This was much more fun than sitting forlornly in the shop and trying to pretend that he didn't hear Fred, because that was what would make Mum and Dad and Ron happy. They were alive again.

The door of the design room opened. George ignored that at first, because he knew that it would only be Harry and he would wait for whatever he wanted. But then Fred touched the back of his neck and whispered in his ear, and George realized that the person who had entered the room didn't breathe like Harry.

It was still enough to make him stare when he turned around and saw who it _was, _thought.

"Sod off, Malfoy," he said, but his voice was weak with his disbelief, and that was all Malfoy needed, apparently, to stroll into the room and look around as though he'd been invited.

Fred whispered a spell to him, and George whispered it to his wand and the machine in turn. The machine shimmered a little and the design changed, at least on the surface, where someone was most likely to look. Even if Malfoy saw what they were working on, he wouldn't be able to replicate its true form.

"How fascinating," Malfoy murmured. George turned and saw him bent over a stack of plans. He relaxed, though, because Malfoy wouldn't be able to make anything of the plans even if he did steal them; they were only half-complete. The other half of the plans lived in Fred's brain, and Malfoy would never talk to him.

"Aren't they?" George agreed, standing and strolling over to Malfoy. Since they didn't know Fred was there, most people didn't guard themselves against observation from him. From closer up, George might be able to let Fred see something Malfoy was hiding. "I don't know if I'll get the chance to use all of them, though."

"Because the Ministry might win the war?" Malfoy eyed him with a gaze more thoughtful than George had expected from the little shit who'd let Death Eaters into the school.

"No," George said. "Because the ones I want to invent take up so much time and materials."

Malfoy blinked, as if disappointed by such a materialist answer, but inclined his head in that faux-gracious way he had anyway. "Ah." He hesitated, then added, "I'm brewing potions for Potter." _Strange how he still says Harry's name like he hates him, _Fred murmured, and George agreed. "If you need something, let me know."

"I'd think that you're the one more likely to need something," George said. "We'll have more ingredients than you do."

Malfoy scratched the back of his neck and looked half-embarrassed, but only half. "There's knowledge that a Potions master possesses that you don't," he countered. "I can offer you advice."

_A lie, _Fred hummed.

George nodded in agreement with his twin, rather than with Malfoy, and gave him a pitying glance when Malfoy pressed closer as though he assumed he was going to be let in on all manner of important secrets. "We can brew our own potions, thanks," he said. "And I know exactly why you're here."

"What?" Malfoy did a good innocent act, but George and Fred had been masters of false innocence since long before he was born. George only watched until Malfoy began to realize that he couldn't charm his way out of this situation. "I don't know what you're talking about," Malfoy said, but in a lower voice than before.

"You've always been jealous of Harry," George said. He wished that someone else could be here, because the stricken look on Malfoy's face was _too _perfect, but one couldn't have everything. He had enough of an audience with Fred's snickers urging him on, anyway. "When you heard that he was leading a revolution, you hurried over because you just had to find a way to sabotage it. And you hope to do that by finding out how we brew our potions and power our machines and then destroying them. No, I don't think so. You can stay here because Harry believes your interrogation. But no one else did, you know. They follow Harry and they're loyal to him, but they know that you aren't. They'll be watching for the moment when you think yourself unobserved and try to move against Harry. And then you'll find yourself tossed out on your arse, if you're lucky. I'd think that Harry would be more likely to cast a spell that removes your intestines and then give you a week to find new ones. Or maybe he'll hand you to us for experiments. We could use someone, and we don't have many volunteers."

"I came here because I wanted to free my parents," Malfoy said. His voice had gone soft, and he did nothing but stand in place as though he assumed that would make George's suspicions sheer away from him. "For no other reason."

"That's a good line to get you into Harry's presence," George agreed kindly. "But it's not the truth." He leaned closer. Malfoy, to his credit, didn't back away, but he couldn't hide the nervous flicker of his eyes. George was pleased. "Just remember," he whispered. "When you think that you know how things work, we'll be there to teach you otherwise." He winked and pulled away.

"You and what army?" Malfoy muttered, but his voice was subdued, and he slinked out the door a moment later. George turned back to their latest invention, adding to Fred as he went, _Do you think he took the hint?_

_No,_ Fred said. _He's too jealous to do it. Sooner or later he'll do something supremely stupid, and even Harry will have to understand that he's no good for the revolution._

George nodded in respect of that good sense, and then removed the glamour he'd placed over their newest design and stared at it. No, it turned out that they needed more silver on the other side, and when he appealed to Fred, Fred agreed that it would be a good idea, along with opals on the opposite side, which meant they needed to tell Harry that they needed opals…

* * *

_I thought I had hidden better than that._

Draco swallowed the ashes of his pride as he shut the door of his room behind him. The only consolation was that Weasley hadn't thought Draco was a spy for the Ministry. Jealousy of Potter was the motive that Draco would have to play up to should anyone accuse him in the immediate future.

More disturbing was the notion that no one trusted him but Potter.

Draco grimaced and felt as if he was biting into a lemon. _Then my course is clear, both to blind the eyes of the fools and to make sure that Potter comes over to my cause if I can persuade him. I'll have to—act as if I'm drawn to him against my will. As if I was jealous, but fascinated, and humiliated at the fact that he appears to be my best chance. When the feathers stop flying and they stop squawking about that, then perhaps they'll be in the right mood to see me as a fool along with them._

_ I have to fit in, after all._

Draco shook his head. He might as well get started right away, and that meant carefully considering the approach that he would take to Potter.

He considered and rejected pure hero-worship. Potter's recent attention to books suggested that the time when he had appreciated that, if at all, was past. The same thing applied to trying to strike up an innocent friendship or apologize for what had happened between them in their Hogwarts days.

Only one option stood out to him when he had finished his mental list, as if inked in a different hand.

_It must be seduction._


	9. Reap the Whirlwind

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Nine—Reap the Whirlwind_

"Are you sure that this'll work, mate?"

Harry clapped Ron on the back, and tried not to notice the way his eyes drifted away as if he assumed that looking into Harry's face would be too hard to bear. "I'm counting on you, Ron," Harry said. "That's all."

"I know you are," Ron muttered, and then they opened the large doors and stepped into the room where their followers (a strange word to use, Harry thought, because it implied that they hadn't _chosen _to follow, but he really didn't know a better one) awaited them.

The quatrains stood slightly apart from each other in the front rows, Catchers and Wheelwright telling the story of how they had gone along to Hogwarts. Harry smiled as he listened to them, although their words were lost behind the swelling chaos of noise that arose as soon as most people caught sight of him and Ron.

"Good to see you, sir!" someone called out.

Harry looked sideways at Ron and raised his eyebrows. "Sir?" he mouthed.

Ron shrugged defensively, shifting the burden of the large scroll of parchment he carried from one shoulder to another. "They needed something to call me if they were going to respect me," he muttered. "'Sir' is less objectionable than some other titles I could think of."

"You've got that right," Harry muttered, making Ron chuckle, and they walked down the aisle that had already formed between the ranks of the watching men and women, towards the cleared space in the middle.

Harry found it hard to imagine what the former owners of the manor had used this room for, unless it was as a sort of private theater. There was a polished ivory stage in the middle, where he and Ron would stand, and the floor very subtly slanted between what looked like planks of wood buried into it at intervals of a few feet but which could unfold to become seats. Maybe the family had been large enough that the current head could stand here and harangue them, Harry thought. Hard to know.

But then, a lot of pure-blood customs were still hard for him to understand. He was grateful that he had become friends with Ron instead of Malfoy, because Ron only occasionally made references to something odd or talked about something Harry had never heard of before and expected him to know what it was. Malfoy would have done that all the time, Harry thought.

_Malfoy…_

Harry scanned the crowd for a moment and found him, standing towards the front, his arms folded as though he was anticipating either a boring session or an attack. Harry nodded to him. Malfoy promptly squinted at him as if he was looking into the sun.

"What does the little fucker want?" Ron muttered. He'd followed Harry's line of vision and leaned forwards now as though he thought Malfoy would do something dastardly in the next minute and a half.

"I don't know," Harry said. "I doubt that it's only to free his parents."

Ron blinked at him with one eye. "You know that? We—thought you didn't. Why would you let him stay if you knew he was planning something else?"

"Because he did pass the Veritaserum interrogation," Harry said, smiling at Ron, "and I want to see _what _he has planned."

Ron rolled his eyes and started to say something else, but they had arrived at the stage now, and the wave of cheering drowned out any words they could have said. Ron tapped the scroll with his wand and made it float in mid-air in front of him, while he climbed up on the stage and bowed to the crowd. Harry climbed up beside him, watching the people who oriented on them, noting the directions of their gazes.

More of them looked to Ron than to him. Harry relaxed. His name and reputation had been necessary to power the revolution in the beginning, perhaps, and most of those who fled to them now still came looking for "Harry Potter's revolution." But Ron was the one who led them in battle. That meant, if something happened to cause them to lose faith in Harry, they would still have a leader the rebellion could move forwards under.

And Harry did think the success of the rebellion was more important than his maintaining control of it.

He glanced at the scroll, which a lot of people were watching curiously now, and nodded. The representation of Fortuna's Wheel on the parchment was as good as he could make it, transferred directly from the book with a Copying Charm and then enlarged. Some of the colors had gone a bit blurry in the process, but none of them had mixed, to Harry's relief. He thought the colors of each spoke important.

Not that just memorizing the colors of the wheel and having the determination to turn it would be enough, as Harry knew. He could use that when he was trying to take away his _own _ability to do a spell, but it would be something more, something else, when they were trying to take away magic from other people.

_How many of them are going to agree to this?_

Harry shrugged. If no one did, then he would go out and use the weapon on his own. He was a lot more concerned with taking away certain of the Ministry's powers and forcing them to a compromise than anything else. He had said as much in his latest letter to Hermione, when she worried that his revolution had no definite goals and thus was doomed to failure before it ever managed to fly.

_But you killed the Minister, _came a line from the letter she had sent him in return, the one he hadn't answered yet. _That makes it murder. That makes it war. Do you think that you can come back from this, Harry?_

The crowd had gone mostly silent and was staring at him now. Harry shoved his doubts aside. He would have to hope that he could explain _this _concept to everyone first and get them to accept it, before he started worrying about the dead Minister and what he meant.

"How many of you know of Fortuna's Wheel?" he asked.

There were murmurs and rising hands. Others cocked their heads as if they wanted to understand the design on the scroll before they committed themselves to anything. Harry smiled sympathetically at them, and a few people smiled back.

"It is hard to understand," he said. "A wheel that is also the world, and can be spun or turned with your mind, if you work hard enough at it. Most of the time, fate or chance—whichever name you believe is right—is the only thing that can spin it. But I have worked the spell on myself, and now I've changed."

"How, sir?" asked Catchers, who stood near the stage and looked as though he expected Harry to extend an extra arm from beneath his cloak.

_So they call me "sir," too. _Harry didn't know what to do with that discovery yet, and it went into the back of his mind to await its turn to be relevant, like Hermione's information. "I took away the ability to cast the Blasting Curse from myself," he said. "I want to use this to take away from the Aurors the ability to cast the Memory Charm and the Imperius Curse."

An instant babble of voices arose, all of them shouting to be heard. Harry lifted his wand and cast an enormous flare of red smoke with black sparks upwards. That shut most of them up, though here and there someone talked earnestly to him about things that Harry wasn't ready to discuss yet.

"As you can imagine," he said, "this is going to take a lot of work before we can be sure that we can use it safely on our enemies. I would prefer not to damage them, in fact. I only want to make sure that the Ministry can't protect the guilty anymore or come up with persuasive cover stories to hide their guilt. Who is with me?"

"Permission to speak, sir!" Catchers was practically standing on his toes, his arm vibrating as he shoved his wand into the air.

Harry nodded to him, braced for a violent disagreement. He had known that Catchers would come to him, even after Harry had cursed him on his way out of the Ministry, because that was the kind of Auror Catchers was. He didn't hold someone being stronger in magic against them, because that was the way the world was made, with some people stronger and some people weaker. But he would consider, seriously, the accusations made by someone who was stronger than him. It was as though you opened a way into his mind with a spell cast into his body.

But Harry knew that he'd probably weakened himself in Catchers's eyes by talking about losing a spell, and that meant that Catchers would consider himself more entitled to disagree with Harry than he had been so far.

"That would make our enemies into Squibs, sir," Catchers said.

Harry inclined his head. "Not across the whole range of magic, but with those two particular spells, yes."

"That is _wrong_," Catchers said, and his voice vibrated like his wand had done. "We'll be wrong if we do that, sir."

Harry decided that he might as well answer this objection right now. A lot of heads were moving up and down, and there were others whom Catchers could persuade to his side if Harry couldn't answer this question.

"It's like this, Catchers," he began, and leaned forwards, and everyone else in the room seemed to follow him, even as his vision narrowed down to the one young man in front of him, who had to be convinced somehow.

* * *

_Potter is mad._

That was the thought which flashed through Draco's mind as he stood there, staring at the brightly-colored scroll and the young former Auror whom Potter was trying to persuade. It was as though, if he didn't look at Potter, he could repress the possibility of such a mad change in the world itself.

But he did look, of course, and saw the confident smile curving Potter's mouth as he listened to whatever answer the Auror was making. He believed he was right. He wouldn't be dissuaded by anything anyone else could say to him. In fact, from Weasley's expression, he had already tried that, and Potter had rebuffed him.

Draco's emotions twisted and writhed back on themselves, so that he had to close his fists in his robes and keep his breathing slow and steady to avoid attracting attention. This was not the future he had envisioned when he became a spy for the Ministry. He had thought that he would have forever to make his choices, because Potter had done so little so far that he would do little in the foreseeable future.

And now he found himself rushing up on the rocks of a decision right away. Did he tell the Ministry what Potter had planned, or not?

_If I do so, then they would find some way to counter it. Potter found this method with only a little determined theoretical searching. They would be able to spare more people and time for it, and they would discover the real answer in instants._

If he didn't tell the Ministry, his allegiance to Potter, or rather his lack of faith in the Ministry, would be exposed at once the moment Potter started training some of his people to take away those spells from the Aurors.

Draco clenched his hands in front of him and fought the urge to close his eyes and go away into a private dream-world where his parents were free and this had never happened. He had spent enough time there immediately after his mother's sentencing. This was reality, and reality hadn't conformed to Malfoy wishes in seven years.

_Choose._

He looked back again at Potter, standing there with his head confidently cocked, his hands resting on his hips as though he didn't think any argument could persuade him to change his stance.

_This is what I choose._

Draco shoved his way forwards through the crowd. People gave place to him with offended looks, but most of them didn't protest; that was the sort of behavior they expected from someone rude and Malfoy, evidently. They probably thought those words synonymous, Draco thought. Perhaps they should be, if that would help him achieve what he wanted.

He arrived at the base of the stage and sprang upwards, landing beside Potter. Potter moved back a step and watched him with a steady, bright gaze.

Draco nodded once to him, then turned and faced the crowd. "I support him," he said. "And I'm pure-blooded."

That made a few people hesitate, not many. The former Auror who had been challenging Potter until now snorted and said, "And why should anyone listen to what you say? You joined the revolution late, and we all know why you came."

"If you think that getting prisoners out of Azkaban isn't a worthy goal," Draco said to him, with a yawn, "then perhaps you should join a different group. We all know that Potter is interested in justice. And this is justice, too."

Weasley narrowed his eyes. "How can you be sure, Malfoy?" he asked. "Memory Charms are our best tool to protect ourselves against Muggles. I know that Harry has some justifications for taking them away, but—"

Draco sneered at him and kept right on talking. Weasley wouldn't trust him if he said that Potter was the most brilliant general the world had ever seen. Draco wouldn't waste breath trying to convince him. There were other minds out there he could touch, more important ones.

The most important one stood next to him, and hadn't interrupted him yet.

"You're reacting as though we want to take away the ability from everyone in the wizarding world," he said. "Potter only talked about taking it away from the Aurors and Hit Wizards loyal to the Ministry. Did you somehow miss that?"

Weasley shook his head. "It would extend to us in the end. We couldn't use spells that our enemies couldn't use, when the war is over. We couldn't pretend that we were somehow above them."

Draco stared at Weasley. "Why _not_?" he asked, forgetting his choice not to engage him in argument. Yes, it would likely end up becoming ridiculous, but Weasley had to understand that his point-of-view was not the only one possible. "The Ministry uses spells that they don't permit anyone outside the Auror Corps to learn. They give people permission to use Legilimency, when it's banned otherwise. Wartime permissions have included the Unforgivable Curses."

"But we're trying to be better than they are." Weasley's voice altered towards the brittle. "You wouldn't understand that, of course, being Malfoy."

Draco gave him a smile like a sword. "Taking away two spells isn't the end of the world," he said.

"He's right."

For a moment, Draco thought the words had come from Weasley, since he was so focused on the bastard, and reeled. But then he realized that Potter had shifted forwards to stand beside him and slipped the words into a hole in their argument.

Weasley's jaw clamped shut. A moment later, he said, "Mate, you can't mean that. You wanted to—you were saying that we couldn't pretend that we were better than them, not when so many people have changed their minds and joined us, and we didn't do anything about the evil around us as quickly as we should have."

Draco came very close to rolling his eyes. _Evil. _Having seen the Dark Lord at work, Weasley was now prepared to assign too much importance to violations of his own moral code.

"I know I said that," Potter said. He shifted closer. Draco shifted away, and then forced himself to stand still. If he wanted to work with Potter—and he had chosen that the moment that he decided to go with Potter instead of reporting Potter's plan to the Ministry—then he should get used to the odd heat the man seemed to put out, like a grounded sun. "But I don't see us using the Imperius Curse often, and the Memory Charms only at great need. It's specific people who misused the Memory Charms. Malfoy is right. This is about the Aurors and the others working for the Ministry who would misuse the spells, not saying that some magic is evil and has to be destroyed completely."

"But you said," Weasley began. Then he fell silent. Draco wondered if some signal had passed between Potter and Weasley that he didn't know about, or if Weasley was questioning his own memory of the conversation. Draco hoped it was the latter. In his view of the world, Weasley should question _everything, _up to and including his own decision not to use a glamour on his freckles in the morning.

"We have to stop the Ministry from condemning the innocent and letting the guilty go with not even an imputation attached to their names." Potter's voice had deepened. The heat had increased again, and this time, Draco didn't care who saw him inch away—not when he looked to the side and saw actual _flames _billowing away from Potter's sides and arms and head. Potter spoke in a hard voice, but not an angry one, and swung in a slow circle that ought to let him make eye contact with everyone in the crowd. "That is our primary goal. That is why we started this revolution. To bring justice into the world, not to satisfy our own urge to kill or become vigilantes. Why did we steal the loyalist Aurors' wands? Because we wanted to prevent them from casting more of the kinds of spells that they have in the past, and we wanted the Ministry to stop using them as an arrest and concealment force in the case of _real _Dark magic. This, the stealing of certain spells from them, is only another rendition of the same idea."

A great quiet seemed to flow over the crowd as everyone considered that. Draco frowned over his shoulder at Potter. He had no idea how the man could take ideas and shape them into words that would still people, especially when he hadn't been the one to make clear the distinction between only taking those spells from Aurors and taking them from everyone else in the first place.

Potter met his eyes. That green gaze was steady and calm, and looked as though Potter knew what was going to happen—although how he could, when currents kept shifting these people around, Draco didn't know—and how to deal with it. Draco didn't see how he had tamed the crowd, but he reckoned he could see why people would follow Potter. Being that close to so great a certainty might be enough.

_I'll turn you, _he told Potter silently. _I'll harness you and drive you so that you tow these people in the direction _I _want to go._

Potter cocked his head for a moment as though he'd heard him, and then the Auror who had been opposing him before said, "When you put it like _that_…"

Potter's gaze left Draco in a moment and darted to the young man. He was grinning, one hand cupped as though he would scoop the words Draco and Potter had spoken out of the air and shape them into something else, some even stronger binding. Draco half-shook his head. He had never envisioned sharing authority with so many people when he had jumped up on the stage to choose his side.

"When I put it like that?" Potter asked, gently, and then waited.

"Then I can see what you mean." The young Auror took in a deep breath and let his hand drop. "Why you made the decision you did."

Potter smiled and turned to flash that grin at the others again. Draco found himself cold as Potter's body heat shifted away from him. "Yes!" Potter called, lifting his voice. "I find this a hard revolution to fight. We aren't arguing that the Ministry has to die or that we want to completely change the way that things are done in wizarding society. We understand that traditions bind us and some of those traditions are best preserved. But we won't let a small segment of people—because not even all pure-bloods want pure-blood criminals to go free and Muggleborn criminals to be punished far more violently for minor crimes—take away our freedom and our safety and implicate us in their actions. That's the part of the goal that needs dedicated thinking. How are we going to accomplish that when we know that the Ministry and the people in charge of it won't change their minds on their own, and too many other people are too scared to stand up to them? We attack them directly! With techniques like this."

That got nods and shouts, and then other people began asking questions. Draco didn't pay as much attention to them, instead studying Potter, whose flames had died out. Not as many people had reacted to those as Draco had expected, which must mean that _lots _of people knew that Potter was hovering on the edge of wild magic where his temper was concerned.

And yet, he had stayed calm and spoken to the people irritating him as though he wouldn't lash out and burn them to death, the way he had the Minister. Draco hadn't felt he was in danger after the first few moments, the way he would have if the magic was building to an attack point.

Draco had never heard of that happening before with any other case of wild magic, and it bothered him. Enough that he decided this would make for a good way to start his investigation into Potter, and that he would offer his conclusions to Potter when he found them. That might be a way to create an intellectual kinship with him, since Potter was much more into studying now.

A pigeon fluttered overheard abruptly, making Draco duck and look around for open windows before he saw the way Potter reached out an expectant arm towards it. When it settled on that arm, Draco could make out the envelope it carried. The sides of the envelope bulged with slim, square objects that, when Potter spilled them into his hand, turned out to be photographs.

Potter looked at them for longer than he would have needed to make out their subjects. Then his face went grey, and he said, "Do these look like what I think they are?" He handed them over to Weasley.

It didn't take Weasley as long to react. He flinched back from the pictures as if they could hurt him, and said, "_Necromancy. _The Ministry's using it, mate. That can't—this can't be anything else."

Draco stared, his heartbeat quickening in tempo. It seemed he had underestimated Summers and the other Aurors who had hired him. They were more dangerous and more committed to Dark magic than he thought.

"No," Potter agreed, staring, and the flames began to surge around him. He turned back to the people who watched him with wide eyes, and this time Draco saw that his calm veneer was fragile, threatening to break.

"It seems," Potter said, "that we need to change our plans. We can use these spells on the Aurors, but we will have a bigger job coming."

_One that will include a raid on Azkaban, because I'll make sure that it does, _Draco completed silently. _Yes. The Ministry is going to fall, one way or another. After this, it should be easier to push Potter further than he meant to go originally._

_ I made the right choice._


	10. Only the Flame

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Ten—Only the Flame_

"Mate, I wish you would tell me what you're doing."

Ron had been making the same complaint since they left the announcement room, but Harry hadn't answered him so far, because he didn't want to chance being out in the corridors where someone might overhear them. In reality, he thought as he shut the door of Ron's rooms behind them and turned around again, it probably wouldn't matter. If he began explaining what was in his head right now, no one would understand it.

_He _didn't understand it. He only knew that it had to be done.

"I know, Ron," he said, and clapped him on the back. He began to pace—maybe prowl would be the better word—back and forth across the center of Ron's main room. There was a table in the corner that was set up almost like a shrine, covered with photographs of Hermione, and Ron and Hermione's wedding pictures. Harry stared absently at it. He wished he could have an equivalent in his room, but Ron was with him and there was too much chance someone would find a picture of Hermione and might learn that she was a spy. Harry knew there were people who _suspected _that, but he would prefer to keep it as much of a secret as possible.

"Then tell me what you're doing." Ron's voice was the same crisp one that he used to command members of the quatrains who were getting above themselves. He leaned forwards and fixed Harry with a seriously impressive glance, hard enough to make Harry wince.

"All right," Harry said. "We have to fight across a bigger battlefield than I'd assumed we would. Those pictures of necromancy—they change everything, Ron. And I know Hermione will have sent them to Luna, so soon more people than just our group will know about it."

Ron nodded, his hair more shaggy than usual and swishing around him with a loud, rustling noise. "Yes, I know."

"We need to get Hermione to tell us where they're keeping the Inferi," Harry said softly. He could feel a steady, gentle tingling spreading up his arms and down to the backs of his hands. He scratched one of the tingling places and hoped that it would subside soon. "And then we need to go in and destroy them."

Ron's eyes widened. "How are we going to do that?" he asked. "The quatrains are hunting well together, but most of them don't know spells that would destroy Inferi. It would take at least another week to train them, and by then the Ministry will have moved their necromancers."

"We have to do it now," Harry said. "Tonight."

"You aren't listening to me," Ron said, and Harry knew it was a real effort for him to keep the snap out of his words. "How are we going to do it?"

Harry held out one hand. With the way he felt, it took no effort to call the fire. It was with him, a flame that struck between his fingers like a fishing hook and blazed there, shimmering in midair, making Ron back away a step before he thought about it.

Usually, Harry didn't know when the fire began to blaze; it was just something that happened when his temper flared hot enough, and he couldn't command it. But this was something else he had worked on when he was alone in his rooms, when he was bored of reading or the words swam on the page in front of him, so blurry that he couldn't force himself to keep going. He let the flames spread and keep on spreading until Ron's face gleamed with sweat and Ron's eyes blinked; then he snapped them back into himself and held them there, looking at Ron expectantly.

"I've never seen anything like that," Ron whispered. "You—can't control wild magic that way."

Harry gave him the only answer he'd been able to come up with, since none of his reading had told him for certain what was happening to him, or why he blazed with fire in the first place, since he hadn't done it in the war. "I don't think it's wild magic anymore."

In the silence, Ron looked at Harry and nodded once.

Harry didn't have to look further to know that it was a nod of support.

* * *

"What makes you think that we'd let you go along?"

Weasley didn't even bother to look at him. Draco dubbed that the most infuriating thing.

He'd found Weasley five minutes ago, searching through a room that seemed stuffed full of practice wands, books, spare robes, boots, and anything else that the revolution didn't need at the moment. Draco had wondered what he was searching for, but he didn't expect Weasley to answer that question. He _did _expect an answer to his query about whether he could go along on their mission to destroy the Inferi, however. A better one.

"Because," he said, "there are so few people who are part of your group and know how to fight Inferi. I have Dark spells that can combat them, or, even better, seize control of them from their creators. How many others around here are going to know those spells, or have the time to learn? You'd be mad _not _to take me."

Weasley whirled around and snapped his wand out, a beam of red light cutting through the air. Draco thought it was a Stunner at first and started to move, but the beam sliced across his skin and burned, harshly. He forced himself to stand still, instead, while the red light crackled through the air around him and set up a glimmering line like a ward that Draco knew better than to try and cross.

"I don't care what you think you are, or who." Weasley spoke with quiet force, leaning forwards on the balls of his feet so far that Draco thought he would fall over. "But you _aren't _getting away with the sort of shit that you got away with at Hogwarts because of who your Daddy was. No one cares who your Daddy is now. He's where he belongs and you're here until you commit some error that will convince Harry to let us kick you out, and that's it. Understand?"

"He can come, Ron," said Potter's voice, the only voice that Draco thought could have penetrated the red haze of anger that had filled his ears and vision at the mention of his father.

Draco turned and stared at Potter. Potter looked back with a faint smile, but didn't seem concerned with what Draco would say or not say; instead, he was focused on Weasley, who was looking at Potter with the stillness of shock.

After a moment, Weasley shook his head and whispered, "What? Why?"

"Because what he says is true," Potter said calmly. "We'll need someone who can get rid of the Inferi. _Get rid of them_," he said, snapping his head around suddenly and staring at Draco. "We don't want them ourselves."

Draco opened his mouth to argue, and then closed it and told himself not to be a fool. Potter's intervention meant he would get to accompany him, something Draco had hardly hoped for even though he had insisted on it. He would be stupid if he made so much fuss that Potter left him behind as the preferable course to avoid trouble.

"I still don't think it's a good idea," Weasley protested. "We don't know what he came here for. If he's a spy for the Ministry, then he might think that he can get in the way and give the Inferi back to them."

Potter laughed, and the whole corridor seemed filled with it for a moment, making Draco have to swallow back some nameless emotion that had welled up from the center of him. "If he tries that," Potter said, "I'll do to him what I'm intending to do to the Inferi. But we need someone to fight the necromancers who are going to be there, Ron. And Dark spells ought to be particularly good at that."

Weasley seemed to be fighting a silent struggle with himself. Draco suspected he knew what it was: morals against logic. And he knew the morals would win. With a Gryffindor, they did, every time, which must be why Potter had decided to destroy the Inferi instead of seek control of them.

But for the second time in three minutes, a Gryffindor surprised him. Weasley made a sound like steam escaping a kettle, a hissing, sour sound, and shook his head. "_Fine._ If this goes wrong, then I'll remind you of it the next time that you have what you think is a good idea, mate."

"And you'll be right to reprimand me, and I'll accept it." Potter gave Weasley a smile that made Draco ache obscurely in his chest, and turned that full, glittering gaze on Draco. "I hope for your sake that you aren't bluffing about knowing those spells, Malfoy."

As it happened, Draco wasn't, but he could have come up with curses that would serve the purpose even if he didn't specifically know ones that worked against Inferi. He inclined his head stiffly. "I also have the potion you asked me to make, one that should keep us out of sight as we approach the wards."

"Excellent." Potter practically laughed the word out. He was practically bouncing on his toes. The air around him practically shimmered. "Then come on." He darted down the corridor, with only Weasley and Draco behind him.

_Is he on some sort of drug? _Draco wondered uneasily as he ran. _That might explain it, but I don't know that anything else would._

* * *

Harry could feel the current of heat that he couldn't name to anyone else yet, that he didn't think he could explain to Ron or Malfoy, running beneath his skin. If Hermione was there, he might have explained it to her, because she had been with him when he killed Duplais.

Or burned him. Harry had to admit that the Minister's death was so convenient that he didn't know if he had actually died of his burns, when the Healers seemed to think he was recovering, or if someone else had murdered him.

But that didn't _matter, _not right now, not when they had sent Hector back to Hermione and he had brought Apparition coordinates, scrawled in a shaky hand, as if Hermione knew what they were about to do and didn't know if it was a good idea. Hector had been so tired when he came flying back that he went to sleep right there, on Harry's table, sitting with his head beneath his wing even before they took the letters from his feet.

It didn't matter. Not right now. Harry scanned the coordinates, fixed them in his mind, and then handed the letter to Ron. Ron nodded to show that he'd memorized the coordinates and then hesitated. "You're not going to show this to Malfoy, are you, mate?"

Harry laughed. The current of warmth beneath his skin leaped up and down, and the flames that he knew he could call any moment were peering up from beneath his fingers. He calmed them with an effort, the sort of effort it used to take him to subdue his wild magic when he was angry. "Are you mad?"

"Well, thank Merlin for that, at least," Ron murmured, and tossed the letter in the air, incinerating it as it fell. "I don't understand why you trust him so much."

"Because I think that he could be a powerful ally if we could only convert him fully to our side," Harry said simply. "And because he passed the Veritaserum test. And because he knows things about Azkaban that we'll have to know eventually, when we raid it."

Ron cast him a quick glance. "Harry…most of the prisoners there deserve what they got."

"Can we be sure?" Harry asked simply. "With the Wizengamot's judgment suspect in the past seven years? Do you really think that with all the cases we _didn't _work on, the ones that just happened to see Muggleborns condemned to Azkaban or pure-bloods let go, there aren't at least some innocents there?"

"It's not that," Ron said. "But I don't know how we'll be able to identify them."

"I have an idea," Harry said, and left it at that, because the idea was still small and unformed yet, and probably would make less sense to Ron than even his idea to destroy the Inferi. "Let's go."

He rose smoothly to his feet. At the moment, he didn't think he could make a wrong movement, even if twenty loyalist Aurors had come after him. His world pulsed and drummed around him, and his blood and magic sang in answer.

"You're all right?" asked Ron, who was staring at him.

"Yes," Harry said. "And I know how you would feel about Side-Alonging Malfoy, so I'll do it."

That didn't distract Ron as much as he'd hoped. Ron blinked and bit his lip and said, "Right, mate. But don't let him close enough to get in a good strike at you. The last thing the revolution can afford right now is to lose you."

_No, I think the last thing the revolution can afford to lose right now is you, _Harry wanted to say. _You're the one who trains the quatrains, the one who comes up with strategies for the plans that I dream up, the one who has their respect and their loyalty. I'm someone who half of them think is crazy for my plan with Fortuna's Wheel, and if they knew about this one, it would be worse._

But he didn't say any of that, just smiled at Ron, shook his head, and went outside to where Malfoy awaited them. It was just the three of them, just a party that could move fast and strike quickly and didn't have anyone along who would ask too many questions…as long as Malfoy could keep from asking a question that would make Ron punch his teeth out.

Harry extended his arm to Malfoy for the Side-Along, feeling as if he walked on air. Malfoy took it, but gave him the same kind of long, slow glance that Ron had been using back in Harry's rooms, as if he stood more of a chance than Ron did at figuring out what was "wrong" with Harry.

"Hold tight," Harry whispered, and then they vanished from the manor; the place's anti-Apparition wards had been lowered temporarily around this one patch of corridor. Harry saw Malfoy's eyes get big just before they departed, and knew that he was probably trying to memorize that patch of corridor, as well as wondering whether the wards were down all the time around it.

_Sorry, no, _Harry thought, and then gave himself away to the burning happiness.

* * *

They landed with a bump—Potter wasn't a skillful Apparater—on the slopes of a mountain. Draco glanced around, hoping to see something, but everything was dim and grey in the light of the stars and moon, and of course he knew without asking that they shouldn't use their magic to call light.

Which made him all the more startled when Potter held out a hand and flame sprang up from it, glowing brighter in the darkness by contrast than anything Draco had ever seen, even the candles that his parents used to light to celebrate their wedding anniversary.

"Potter, what are you—" he hissed, before the sounds of wards yapping streamed down to them from up the hill. He clutched his wand, which Potter had given back to him with a warning that spells were on it to prevent him from attacking anyone loyal to the revolution, and wondered if he should Apparate out.

"You and I are taking out the wards and the guards, Malfoy," Weasley said grimly, and began to run, so Draco had to keep up to even hear his next words. "Harry is coming in behind."

Draco didn't really know what that meant, and so he paused, as Weasley began to cast curses, to glance over his shoulder and watch Potter. Exactly what did he think he would do with flame that would give away their position to anyone who looked at it, that probably _had _already given away their position to anyone who wanted to look?

The flame.

Potter was blazing with it, glowing with it, leaping with it. As Draco watched, he leaped into the air, higher than Draco knew someone could go without magical assistance, and came down like a butterfly. He had barely touched the grass when he was off again, floating in towards them, coming in long swimming strides as though he had skates strapped to his feet and moved over ice.

Draco whirled around and ran behind Weasley. At the moment, he couldn't have said whether he was running towards the enemy or away from Potter.

The first guards who came to meet them were dressed in robes like Aurors', but Draco knew they weren't because of the way they moved; that was a good thing. He Stunned the first one, who was still fumbling with his wand. The rest had had more time to prepare, and Shield Charms rose around them, and rarer defenses, formed out of what looked like bubbles and water and green ceramic.

Draco sliced in among them, casting spells so fast that his lips stung. He made out Weasley beside him, moving with the same kind of calm assurance, although Draco didn't think any of the spells he used were Dark. He rolled his eyes and sneered into the distance. Weasley didn't know how to commit to battle or hold a revolution, even if he knew how to _fight_. It was lucky for both him and Potter that Draco had come along.

Two of the guards abruptly moved together, and Draco stepped back so that his spell would take both of them at once. Then a blazing figure shot past him, and he realized that the guards were trying to prevent Potter from getting into the cave.

It didn't work.

The fire that clad Potter now was the most beautiful thing Draco had ever seen, a living and constantly shifting cloak of pure light, the white and blue gleams that darted off to the side slicing the air like thorns, like knives. Potter's hands were blunt weapons, the brilliance of the fire blurring their shapes. He reached out and curled those hands like flames, and the guards fell apart, slammed to the ground by the hot wind that passed between them. Draco didn't fall, but that was because he had seen what was going to happen and hastily fixed his feet to the ground with a Sticking Charm.

Potter leaped over the guards' bodies the same way that he'd leaped before and glowed into the caves. Draco followed, heard Weasley panting at his heels, and then lost track of him altogether.

There was only Potter, dancing in the middle of the caves with the flames circling him, splitting off from him, and forming an orange figure that bowed gravely to Potter before it flowed at the Inferi.

Some of the leftover guards were commanding the Inferi to attack. Draco began cursing them systematically, crippling curses that took less time than full killing spells would: ones that put out eyeballs, snapped wands, broke fingers. He didn't know how many of them actually hit, because he couldn't look.

His gaze would not leave Potter.

The fire surrounded him. The fire _cradled _him. Before that day Draco would have said that was a ridiculous word to use of flames, but it was true. The fire swayed with Potter, danced and ducked and dived and sang with Potter, and traced the quick motions of his feet with scarlet lines. Potter's laughter was faint through the noise, like the high-pitched braying of a donkey, but Draco heard it anyway, and knew he would never miss a nuance in it.

Then Potter stopped dancing, stopped moving altogether. He stood with his hands spread wide and bowed his head. Draco thought he looked as if he was praying, although what he would be praying to, Draco didn't know.

The fire coalesced into an ember-like ball in the middle of his chest. Draco watched Potter's chest rise and fall, and found that he was breathing in time with Potter. It was nothing he had planned. It was something that happened, and his hands trembled and his eyes crossed and his head sagged.

Then the ball blew up, and Draco found himself snapped free of the spell, staggering forwards a step as though it were a wall against which he had braced his weight.

Potter laughed and held out his hand again. This time, pure fire struck out from it like lightning and surrounded the Inferi, lighting them as if they were pillars of straw. Draco looked around and saw that the orange figure—whom he had almost thought he had dreamed—was moving through the further reaches of the cavern, touching ropes and cauldrons and summoning circles and stones and everything that was not Inferi with greedy, gentle fingers.

Draco opened his mouth. He was going to say that no fire could eat an Inferius like that, that it was simply impossible and they would attack in the next few moments no matter what.

But the merrily burning columns began to wink out, and Draco realized that he was wrong. The flames had been hot enough—or magical enough—to eat the Inferi Potter had cast them at. Nothing remained, not even the greasy ash that Draco would have expected to see if a fire like that had consumed a human being.

_Of course, Inferi aren't human anymore, _he thought, his mind detached and inane. Then he shook his head and forced himself to focus on what was in front of him. He doubted that he would get out alive if he didn't.

Weasley was standing back near the cave entrance, his eyes as big as Pansy's when she saw a rat. Potter moved further into the middle of the cave. Draco could see hurrying shapes coming closer, probably human, because Inferi didn't move that fast or gracefully even when commanded.

Potter extended his hands towards them.

They burned.

Draco found himself transfixed, frozen, the air in his lungs so cold that he wondered if the fire would be able to feed upon it. The flames were coiling near him, since they stood not far from Potter's side. The sensible thing would be to move, or at least shut his eyes, but instead Draco stood there and watched.

The fire parted for him. Draco found himself seeing the entire scene through veils of white and blue and red, inscribed on the air in twisting runes that broke apart the next moment and fell back into the main body of the flames with a roar of joy. Draco's heart beat furiously, and his hands shook, and the fire echoed him with a quick patter of beats for the heart, with shaking and nodding flames like tassels of flowers for the hands.

Draco reached out and spread his fingers the way Potter was doing. No fire rose from him to join the magic, of course, but Potter's fire descended and stroked along his skin, thumb and wrist and knuckles and the webbing between the fingers, almost burning him but not quite, a fugitive shine of heat, a racing pulse of life and joy.

Draco held Potter's power between the palms of his hands and felt his body thrill to it so strongly that he found it hard to look up and at Potter.

Potter watched him with the same kind smile that McGonagall had twice given Draco when he performed well in her classes. Then he whirled away and brought his arms down, and the fire blew away towards him, a cloak on his shoulders, a bracer around his waist, a crown on his head.

When it vanished, Draco had found another reason to choose his side.

He licked his lips. He could still taste the heat, the wildness, the _power._


	11. To the Death

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Eleven—To the Death_

_From a letter that Harry Potter sent to Hermione Granger on the same night as his raid on the Inferi:_

…Please don't worry, Hermione. We took care of all of them. Ron and Malfoy made sure that not a single necromancer got away, and we bound them, _Obliviated _them, and dumped them in a Muggle area, where it'll take the Ministry ages to find them. All the Inferi are destroyed. Malfoy inspected all the summoning circles, because he knows spells to tell if they've been used recently. He couldn't find any that had, which means the things that they tried to summon were either in the cave or hadn't come through at all.

I wish we could meet in person. There's all sorts of things that I still don't feel comfortable committing to a letter.

But Ron is sending you a letter, too, and I think he's better at encoding the truth than I am. I'll speak with you soon.

* * *

_Hermione Granger's response to the last:_

Harry, are you mad? Ron's told me some of what happened, and some of what you intend otherwise, and it _scares _me. You know that I've been frightened since this began, so I'm afraid you'll dismiss this now, too, but I'm serious. What kind of magic are you using? Do you _know _what it does? Do you know all the consequences of using it?

It's hardly less disturbing that you let Malfoy come with you. I understand that he knows the spells, but you could have had him teach them to Ron, if you really had to handle the Inferi by yourself. Watch out that Malfoy doesn't become too important to you. I know that he says he's there to free his parents, but I highly doubt it.

I wish I could be there, too, to talk to you and _stop _you. But I wanted to tell you that I'm safe, despite the articles that you might see over the next few days. I could hardly hide that _someone _had visited the Inferi and got the pictures out to publish them, but I've laid down a false trail that amuses me greatly, and should confuse our enemies.

Stay as safe as you can. And the next letter I expect to get from you will, hopefully, be a little less mad.

* * *

_From _The Quibbler _article published the next day:_

** …**And in even more astonishing news than these pictures, the revelation has come to us that Judith Summers is the one we have to thank for the photos. Who else could have known where they were and used a wand to reach them? All the Aurors had their wands stolen a few days ago by Harry Potter, of course, but she was matched to one within two hours, thanks to Ministry priorities. Only a few other high-ranking Aurors have wands, as yet, and all of them report to her. So, if she didn't go herself to the caves, she sent someone who was matched to a wand in indecent haste.

And why? It is not our place to speculate on the politics of the Ministry. We only report facts, such as that the Ministry is losing out in power while the revolution led by Harry Potter is growing.

Make your decision. There are people who lose and people who win, and in this particular contest, you can't be on both sides at the same time.

* * *

_A memo sent by Minister Gillian Clearwater to Head Auror Judith Summers:_

You know what must have happened. Several of the guards on the Caves claimed that they saw Auror Desang come to them a few days ago. It's unlikely that she did, but it's the only lead we have. Pull her in and speak with her.

And then cast that spell that traces magical signatures on the ruins of the Caves. I don't care how much time you have to spend casting it or how Dark it is. We need clues, and we won't get them sitting here.

* * *

_Private memo from Head Auror Judith Summers to Minister Gillian Clearwater: _

It seems that neither nature (human nature, that is) nor magic are cooperating with us today, Minister.

I did pull in Desang, but I had to do it myself. The Aurors whom I first called upon cast me sidelong glances and obeyed my instructions so slowly it would have availed me more to try and empty the sea out with a bucket. I know that the _Quibbler _article has cast suspicion on me and my closest allies, but to have it confirmed from the look in their eyes is intolerable. Something must be done about this.

Desang, of course, protests that she did not do it and does not remember going to the Caves that evening. She could have been under Imperius, a likely possibility since we know from her initial training when she was admitted into the Auror ranks that she is not highly resistant to it. The questioning will continue this evening.

We tried the spell you recommended on the ruins of the Caves. Minister, a fire so intense and so magical burned there that it covered up any traces of other signatures that might have been planted there within the last four days. Even the signatures of the guards and the spells used to create the summoning circles were unrecoverable. I know only one person with the power to cast a fire like this, and I fear him.

* * *

_Private entry from Gillian Clearwater's diary:_

I feel as though I know what I have to do next. No Minister has ever been responsible for a series of political upsets like this, especially not so soon into her term. This is not the war with You-Know-Who, but Potter burns with a fire that might consume more of us in the end, because he is so self-righteous that he can convince others to follow him in the cause of "doing good."

I know what I have to do.

But it would make this war real. I don't know if I can commit myself that far yet. For now, I'll wait.

* * *

_From the _Daily Prophet _article, _"Some Statistics," _published two days after the revelation of the Inferi and the destruction of the Caves:_

…Approximately 20% of the Aurors are now gone. They have either retired, left the country, or fled to join Potter. We respectfully suggest that this is not a good record for the Ministry, if they have Aurors who can be so easily frightened by having their wands taken away and a few smears based on dark photographs that no one yet has admitted to actually seeing Inferi in.

We appeal to Mr. Potter. What do you gain from prolonging this war? You divide the wizarding world, which we suppose is your goal. But you make good people miserable, you lessen the force that we have to cope with Dark wizards, and you render the wizarding population more torn than it has been at any time since the ending of the last war with You-Know-Who.

Some 10% of Hit Wizards have been affected in the same way. Our last Head Auror is Minister, because Mr. Potter killed the Minister before that, and now Mr. Potter has conspired to smear the new Head Auror. How are we to stay safe, if the Ministry is decimated by rumors and anger before it can begin to function?...

* * *

_From the second letter sent by Draco Malfoy to the Ministry:_

…Potter is coming up with a plan based on outmoded magical theories that he thinks will _work_. I wonder. I believe madness is consuming him; one can see it in his eyes, the way he gestures, the way that he tries to force actions on his followers and then is surprised when they resent his presumption.

This plan assumes that he can force the magical wheel of Fortuna to turn so that it grants him new magic and takes away old spells from his enemies. I assumed that most of those around him would be against it, and they are. For the moment, Potter has managed to triumph over their reluctance with dazzling words and the impression that his plans will hurt no one permanently, but I do not expect that to last.

Potter's wild magic is also increasing of late. It always takes the form of fire, and it strengthens my conviction of his madness. No one would willingly play with such power unless he believed that he could control it, but the definition of wild magic is that it _cannot _be controlled. Potter seems to have forgotten this…

* * *

_From the private diary of Minister Gillian Clearwater:_

I know what I have to do. It's the only sensible course, and Judith suggested it to me today in between the numerous people suggesting that I arrest her, that it's the only sensible thing to do to pander to popular prejudice.

I don't want to do it.

Is that enough reason to hold back?

I don't know. I don't know anything anymore. I wish that Duplais was still alive, and Potter back with the Ministry.

* * *

_From a letter written by Auror Andrea Desang to her sister, Mara Constante:_

…They held me for three days and then let me go, Mara. I think I understand why, now. They know that someone impersonated me at the Caves, but they don't know who. And they questioned me for no good reason, delayed me getting my wand for no good reason, except these stupid unsubstantiated suspicions that mean they're further away from the truth than _ever, _now. I only got rematched with a wand today, and I can already tell that it'll never feel as comfortable in my hand as the old one did.

Damn Potter, anyway. I wish this war had never started, and I could have stayed the friend and opponent to him that I was, trying to teach him something about the reality of life in the Aurors before he destroyed himself.

I wanted to warn you, though. I have an idea about who impersonated me, and what I'm going to do about it. If you don't hear from me for a little while, don't worry about it. Don't worry about _anything_, and don't believe _anything _the Ministry says, unless you're called in to identify a body. I'm going to try something.

* * *

_From the desk of Heather Caudill, Unspeakable, to the desk of Minister Gillian Clearwater, for her eyes only:_

Yes, Minister, the artifacts you requisitioned are all out of the Department. I do not know who could have taken the following, which are not with any Aurors that I know of and which the Hit Wizards would not have been permitted to borrow:

A small silver ball wreathed about with bronze garlands. We have studied this artifact for a number of years, and we are still not entirely certain what it does, except that several of the Unspeakables who studied it have been stricken with incurable blindness. We would not have allowed it out under any circumstances.

A silver cup with several runes inscribed on the sides. Two of the runes are readable; one is "winter" and the other is "call." We cannot read the other three, though they are similar to the runes that coded communications during a war with a Dark Lord several centuries ago were written in. Holding the cup cramps the holder's fingers with a chill, but we have not been able to make it work.

A heavy red leather book with two sheets of cream-colored parchment fastened to the binding. The book is much heavier than it should be given its size and lack of pages, but multiple attempts to determine the cause have revealed nothing. One of our researchers did claim that he saw a woman standing beside the book one night, a woman in golden robes with white hair who faded at his approach, but if so, we have not been able to duplicate his sighting. We are worried what the theft of this book implies about the thief rather than the disappearance of the book itself, but of course any artifact vanishing from our care is a cause of concern.

I will continue to go through the archives and let you know if anything else is missing. Good luck in the war against Potter.

* * *

_From the front-page article of _The Quibbler, _four days after the destruction of the Deep Caves and the Inferi:_

…We notice that the Ministry has not, as yet, arrested Head Auror Judith Summers or banned her from active participation in duty. It seems that the Ministry is content to ignore evidence when the heavy hand of that evidence would fall on someone it likes.

Or perhaps the Ministry is more liberal and tolerant than we expected. Perhaps there are people in the Ministry who don't believe the nonsense that the Minister herself expresses when she talks about Harry Potter; they believe the creation of Inferi to be evil, and they accept that the older moral standards are not suggestions to be transgressed but rules to be respected.

Or so we would think, were it not for an attack in the early morning today that made us have to move our presses.

No, we will think that the Ministry is committed to suppressing and ignoring the truth until we receive some evidence otherwise.

* * *

_Letter from Hermione Granger to Harry Potter:_

First of all, Harry, will you tell Ron to quit worrying so ridiculously much? I know he's concerned, but his note doesn't say anything about how he's doing or what he's worried about in _his _life, it's all about _me _and how he's afraid I'll get caught. Of course that's a risk, but one I think I can handle.

And now I have to tell you what the Ministry is buzzing about. It seems someone stole several artifacts from the Department of Mysteries. Some were already gone with Aurors—and I haven't been able to find out any information about where they are or what they're training to do, sorry!—but these are ones that weren't supposed to be lent out, either because they're too dangerous for the common Auror or because they're simply not well enough understood. I think someone is planning to use them against you (I know you would have told me if you had planned to steal them yourself). I can't gain a good idea of what powers they might have right now, but I'll keep listening and looking.

If anyone suspects me of impersonating Desang at the Caves and sending those photographs to Luna, I haven't heard about it yet. I've kept my head down the last few days, though, and acted as if nothing was more important to me than my job, and the suspicions and rumors might have passed me by.

There's a new lead that I intend to pursue. The Minister has a task force picking through your background, looking at your past for weaknesses that they think they can exploit to destroy you. I've offered my "expertise," and that means I can direct their endeavors and, even better, give them the truth while sending them off into _tailspins _about what it means! Again, you can tell Ron—and you can be assured—that I'll be careful, but I have to do this.

If there's anything that you especially don't want me to mention, then send me word. I think you have to accept that they'll find out about the Dursleys, and the trouble you got into at school, and something about the Horcrux quest—the normal things that everyone knows about, such as breaking out of Gringotts on a dragon and using Unforgivable Curses on people. But even those things, I can throw off-track or exaggerate so that they don't see the true importance of them.

_Love,_

_ Hermione._

* * *

_From a private diary entry of Gillian Clearwater:_

The stolen artifacts haven't come to light. And now Morgan and Greywood, the pair of Aurors I sent out with legitimately lent artifacts from the Department of Mysteries, have gone silent. I fear they may have been killed for what they carried.

The Aurors have lost their wands. More and more of them every day look haunted, hunted. The Hit Wizards are slightly better, but then, none of them knew Potter as well, and they are depressed and frightened by the loss of their comrades. If those losses continue to increase, then I'm not sure what will happen next.

Probably the same thing that happened today. The Wizengamot summoned me and demanded to know why I hadn't made "more progress" on the Potter case. I attempted to explain that I was trying and that such things took time, but they looked through me. I'm not sure they heard my voice in the way that I needed them to hear it.

I know the decision I have to make. Everything else is treading water now, putting the final, inevitable moment off.

I wish Duplais had lived.

* * *

_From the _Daily Prophet _article, MYSTERIOUS BREAK-IN AT ST. MUNGO'S:_

…It seems as though the notorious Harry Potter has struck again, as the Healers report that their attempts to track the magical signatures of the attackers met with failure. The records taken are those that relate to the final days of Minister Duplais and his tragic ending.

"Potter probably wanted to see what went wrong with his fire, so that it wouldn't happen the next time he tried to roast a victim," said the Healer, Jacqueline Thompson, whom we spoke to this morning. Her eyes were red with the stress of a weary night, and she bore a hunted expression on her face that our readers will well understand, as they lie in their beds worrying about the fate that might befall them if Mr. Potter wins the war. "The records have _all _been removed, and there's a lot of scorching in the room around them, though we think the fire was lit at least partially to cover the magical signatures of those involved rather than to destroy anything. So far as we can tell, none of the other records are missing."

Harry Potter might want to consider that his attempt to cover up his tracks has failed…

* * *

_Harry Potter's scribbled notes to himself, in the margins of several books that cover the existence and powers of Fortuna's Wheel:_

…not large enough. Can it be made large enough? D. know. Could know with experi. Have to let George know…

Useful for raid on Azkaban?

Need to get Malfoy to talk to me.

Indiv. attempts at wheel not useful. Large-scale attempts needed. Who has powerful enough magic? Ron, George, Catchers, Hermione. Hermione out for obvious reasons.

Malfoy…

Combine with techniques for the individual?

This could be useful with the right level of fire. But the fire needs to burn hotter, needs to turn and change.

Need to get Malfoy to talk to me.

* * *

_Harry Potter's letter to Hermione Granger, in answer to her last:_

Dear Hermione,

Wonderful! You have my permission to tell this group anything you want to tell them, with a twist to make it extra-special and scary, of course. I don't think there's anything they can find or do that would hurt me, though of course I'm happy to know about it beforehand. If they send someone to interview the Dursleys, I don't think they'll get very far, anyway, since the Dursleys still hate magic, or at least Dudley said his parents did the last time I talked to him. They could offer them money, but they'd be reluctant to touch "freak" money, even, after the experiences they had during the war.

It is strange about the Ministry's artifacts disappearing. I can tell you it wasn't any of _us_. The Department of Mysteries makes me uneasy. And not just because of…you know, Sirius. There was something sinister about all those artifacts there that no one else even knew the Ministry had. I don't think I'd touch them without a _much _better idea of what they did, and even then, we'd have to catch an Unspeakable to teach us how to use them, and _Obliviate _him afterwards. Much easier to get along without them, especially after all the interesting ideas that I'm finding old books. Why didn't they have us _read _this stuff at Hogwarts?

Probably because they never expected any of us to be overthrowing the Ministry. I can see McGonagall now: "This lesson is to be used to increase the confidence of your friends and your personal skill at magic, and if I _even think _that you are considering rebelling against the lawful authorities, it's detention for the rest of the year!"

I'll do what I can about Ron, but telling him not to worry only seems to make him worry more. Just be careful, Hermione. I don't know what we'd do if anything happened to you. And I don't mean that in the context of, I don't know what we would do without your information. I hope you know that.

Stay safe.

_Love,_

_ Harry._

* * *

_From a private letter that Ron Weasley sent to Hermione Granger with Hector the post-pigeon:_

…I don't know what to do about him, Hermione. How do you tell your best friend that you think he's succeeding _too _well in something that he originally envisioned as nothing more than something that would make the Ministry change its mind? How do you tell him that, yes, all right, he's rediscovered old magic and got control of wild magic, and that's enough?

He wouldn't understand. And that's not even the worst of it. If anyone could get control of accidental magic, it's Harry. And I have to admit it's not so bad that he wants to take the Imperius Curse from people who would just use it against us and to cover up crimes anyway. (The Memory Charm I'm not so sure about).

The worst of it is his bloody _trust_ thing with Malfoy! They're spending time together now. Malfoy offers him advice about the books he's reading, and suggests more titles. He's gone back to the Manor and got more of them, too. I warned Harry that the Ministry was probably watching Malfoy Manor, and Harry shrugged and said that they could have done something to intercept him and stop him fetching the books before now, if they wanted.

It's as if he doesn't _care _about stopping the Ministry sometimes, and other times it's all he thinks about. I don't understand, Hermione. I mean, I don't think anyone who's not Harry really understands Harry much right now, but I counted on being able to do more than other people. He's only my bloody best friend!

I wish you were here.

* * *

_From a private diary entry by Minister Gillian Clearwater:_

They found Greywood this morning. He was half-hysterical with fright, and they couldn't get any sense out of him for too long. And even when they did, it was unwelcome news tinged with uncertainty. He said that Morgan began using one of the artifacts too much, and then she listened to it—as far as I know, neither of the artifacts they took can speak; I don't know what this means—and then she left him one morning. After uttering some threat that he still can't tell us about.

This morning, word came that some of the Muggleborns who live on the edges of wizarding London are refusing to speak to Aurors who came to work cases in the area. And some Aurors have been attacked.

I was foolish. Potter's example is spreading. He is not the main danger in and of himself; that he will show others the Ministry can be resisted is.

I have no choice.

* * *

_Memo from Minister Gillian Clearwater to Heather Caudill, Unspeakable:_

The fox is running. Blow the horn.


	12. Hail the Conquering Hero

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twelve—Hail the Conquering Hero_

"Miss Granger, will you come this way, please?"

Hermione fixed a smile on her face, decided to ignore the deliberate fuck-up on her name for now—everyone had been careful to address her by her married name since the revolution had begun, as if that would somehow remind her that there were Weasleys still on their side—and followed the small, efficient woman that the Minister had hired as Undersecretary down the corridor. She had never been in this part of the Ministry before, the set of branching passageways and unexpectedly large offices that extended behind the Minister's desk. Of course, her work was more likely to lead to her pleading in front of the Wizengamot than in front of the Minister, and she wasn't of a high rank in the Department yet.

_And never will be, _her supervisor had told her the other day, _if you don't stop fighting so hard for the rights of creatures that no one is interested in giving rights to._

Hermione clenched her teeth and tried to show no trace of that anger on her face as the Undersecretary came to a stop and opened an oaken door with gilt in its tracings. She had to keep her composure when it came to talking to these people, or she would get Harry and Ron—and the rest of them—in trouble that they didn't know how to handle.

"Mrs. Granger-Weasley." That was Clearwater, sitting upright at the head of the table. "Please have a seat."

The chair she gestured her towards was at the foot of the table, and so the focus of all eyes. Hermione moved towards it as nonchalantly as she could, while her gaze made the round of the other people gathered there.

A tall woman with white hair piled on top of her head and a permanently, sourly-pursed mouth was Georgianna Bountiful, the current Speaker for the Wizengamot—the official who met with Departments in the Ministry and coordinated the different liaisons between them. Hermione knew she wouldn't be an ally no matter what happened, and silently discarded her from the count. She didn't know the wizard in purple robes beside her, though the young man slumped next to him, tracing a finger over the patterns on the table, looked vaguely familiar.

Two Aurors occupied a pair of seats further down the table, seated on either side of a chained prisoner. Hermione didn't recognize him, either, but her heart quickened at a flash of the Dark Mark on his arm.

Next to the Minister on the left was a hooded Unspeakable, whom Hermione could see was a woman from her long, fine hands and her painted nails, and on the right was the Undersecretary. Florence, Hermione remembered suddenly. Her name was Florence—something. Hermione didn't have the patience to hunt down her surname in the labyrinths of her memory.

She took the chair and noted that subtle charms had been cast on it that would keep it as uncomfortable as possible. She waved her wand under the table and took care of that, then leaned forwards with her hands folded in front of her and flicked her glance from face to face.

"Minister?" she asked brightly.

"We know that you are Harry Potter's friend," Clearwater said. "And Ron Weasley's wife." She paused, as if these were profound insights that Hermione should have some response to.

Hermione bobbed her head back and restrained her instinctive motion of contempt. _This woman is dangerous, _she reminded herself. _You despise her at your peril. And you know that you have to stay in her good graces to find out what this committee is saying about Harry._

"Yes," Hermione said. "But…" She opened one hand on the table and stared at it for a moment, as though she was fascinated by her palm, before she began speaking again. "But there are times when rules have to take precedence over friendship," she murmured. "Harry was angry with me one day when we were still in Hogwarts because he received a broom from someone unknown and I insisted on taking it away and having it tested for hexes and curses. He wanted to use it to play Quidditch right away. But what else could I have done? People were _after _him. I had to make sure he was safe."

Even with lowered eyes, she saw a nod pass between the Minister and Florence. That made her have to bite her lip to keep from grinning. They would have expected her to lie.

But that was the coward's route out. Hermione would always choose truth, because she knew they would check what she said. It was only the attitude and the spin that mattered, and those, they couldn't check, because they couldn't see inside her head.

_Unless they get someone to use Legilimency on you._

Hermione swallowed, and then hoped that the motion wasn't visible to anyone who watched her. _No good, _she realized a moment later, since so many people—except the prisoner and the Aurors—were looking fixedly at her. She would have to get used to the audience, and just trust that none of them would know what the swallow actually meant.

"Introductions are in order," the Minister said, and gestured to the Unspeakable. "This is Heather Caudill, who has graciously agreed to speak to us about the missing artifacts from the Department of Mysteries and what they could tell us about Potter. My Undersecretary, Florence Rabes, most of you know."

_Rabes, _Hermione repeated to herself, to confirm it in her mind. She thought that was the name of a pure-blood family, but she would check tonight, after the meeting.

"Speaker Bountiful," Clearwater went on with a nod. "And Mr. Richards and his son Jacob."

Hermione looked at the boy out of the corner of her eye again. By his age, she thought they might have been together at Hogwarts, but she didn't remember someone of that name in Gryffindor. Of course, the Ministry probably realized that most Gryffindors would be reluctant to betray Harry.

"Aurors Potkins and Yoven, and their prisoner." The distaste in Clearwater's voice was thick, and she moved on without bothering to introduce the prisoner, leaning forwards slightly with her hands on the table. "You know that we are here to investigate the background of Harry Potter, to learn what might have caused him to commit these terrible deeds, and come up with a way to soothe his mind."

Hermione smothered a snort just in time. She didn't like to think what would have happened if she had voiced it; they might have doubted her commitment to their delusions, and she needed to keep them contented and happy for the moment. _Soothe his mind? Is that what they're calling it now?_

"For those of you who don't know," Rabes said in a high, squeaking voice Hermione hadn't heard her use before, "Mr. Potter's basic background." She took a number of slips of parchment from one of her folders and handed them around the table. Richards and his son took them helplessly, as though they didn't know what to do with them; Bountiful handled them with the ease of long experience; the Aurors and Caudill glanced at but didn't touch theirs, as though to say that they had more important things to do with their hands. Hermione smoothed hers out in front of her and read it.

The parchment contained notes on the Dursleys and on the ways that Harry had faced danger at Hogwarts in each of his first six years, culminating in Dumbledore falling off the Tower. Rabes explained everything at length, probably absorbing if you didn't already know it. Hermione took a few of the facts and considered how she could spin them.

By the time that the Minister turned and looked at her, no doubt hoping to catch her off-balance by the sudden glance, her course was clear. Hermione met her eyes and blinked. "Yes, Minister?"

"You know him better than anyone except your husband," Clearwater said, and her voice charged the room with something thicker and stronger than anger. Everyone else stirred in their seats and looked around significantly. "How did the events of his youth affect him? What part did they play in determining his madness?"

Hermione was glad that the woman had given her a more specific question to answer; the first one was impossibly broad. She sighed and said, "Is it any wonder that he went mad, after such a childhood and such a young adulthood?"

Clearwater seemed to have been braced for disagreement, because she frowned for a moment, recovered herself with a shake of her head, and then asked, "Why did no signs show themselves before now?"

"I think they did, but we didn't recognize them for what they were," Hermione said reflectively. "I thought, and Ron thought, well, he has the right to be a little strange. He's a war hero. He was raised by awful Muggles. We had loving families. We didn't know the first thing about what abuse was like, until we had to confront it in Harry."

"Mr. Potter had a loving family, as well," Rabes said, rushing into the pause in Hermione's breath as if she assumed that she had to erase any impression of danger or neglect Hermione had made before it had time to settle. "There is no doubt that his parents loved him."

"Yes, but they didn't raise him past the time that he was a year and a half old," Hermione said, trying to sound temperate instead of snappish. "The Dursleys are responsible for the way his mind's formed."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Clearwater nodding thoughtfully and Bountiful scribbling something down on her parchment. _Let them. _Hermione knew—better than anyone here, after having come from the Muggle world to the magical one—that a person was more than the sum of her childhood. Yes, it affected her heavily, but one couldn't read the details of a story and unlock that person like a character.

She would heavily encourage that perception in their minds as far as Harry went, though.

"What kind of person is Mr. Dursley?" Bountiful had her finger on the name, or at least Hermione thought so from the way her hand was on the parchment. "It says here that he kept Mr. Potter locked in a cupboard and didn't feed hm. Did he hit him?"

Hermione was glad, then, that Harry hadn't told her that much about his life with his relatives; it meant that she had no choice _but _to lie, since she didn't know the truth. "I don't know," she said smoothly. "Perhaps only small touches, the kind that you would give any child who misbehaves or whom you want to shove in a cupboard. Perhaps worse."

Glances went back and forth between the Speaker and the Minister, between the Minister and her Undersecretary, and probably between Caudill and the rest of them, too, but Hermione couldn't see her eyes for the hood. Hermione looked down at the parchment again and forbore to smile. Yes, well, they would see what they wanted to see, and the tendency that people had to always believe the worst or best of Harry would help, too.

"Rape?" Bountiful asked.

Hermione winced. She hated that anyone could casually ask that question. "Not that I ever knew of," she said. "And I think I would have seen the signs. I think that—well, Minister, Speaker, everyone, I think the major effect the Dursleys had on Harry was that they encouraged him to dream of escape and rescue. Coming to Hogwarts was an escape for him. And he's applying his fantasies now, towards liberating the entire wizarding world. We should have seen the signs earlier," she repeated.

_All the stronger, _she thought as she glanced at the boy down the table from her, the one she suspected had been brought in to testify because he had memories of Harry from Hogwarts to share. _That was the way he was like when he was younger, but he's changed since then. He knows that you can't just point your wand at the bad people and have them fall over dead, that sometimes the "bad people" are the ones on your side._

Disquietingly, the phrases about Malfoy from Ron's letter came back to her. She hoped Harry hadn't carried that new insight too far the other way.

"Does he know that he is no longer a child?" Clearwater asked the question slowly, thoughtfully, one finger tapping on the parchment in front of her as though she could change the facts with a touch. "Does he _know _that he will be expected to stand trial for his crimes like an adult, and that the people he attacks have children, lives, jobs that they must perform? Because it seems as if he does not, aspiring to an impossible ideal of justice, and living still in a boy's world."

Hermione had known that she couldn't change their minds overnight, and that they would have been suspicious of her if she could, but still it hurt to hear Harry spoken of like that. She kept silent, though, and watched Caudill lean forwards and murmur something too soft to be heard.

"A good point," the Minister said, and faced the rest of the table. "Unspeakable Caudill suggests that we allow the witnesses to Potter's past misbehavior that we have brought into the room to speak, so that they may combine their valuable insight with Madam Granger-Weasley's."

Hermione refrained from rolling her eyes, but it was an effort. _Do they think that I'll be on their side if they grant me a title that I don't have a right to, yet?_

She faced the Richards boy, whom Caudill had turned towards. He flushed red in moments, and cast his father a helpless glance. His father patted him clumsily on the back and muttered something. Richards shivered and looked at the rest of them.

"I didn't know him well," he said. "I was in Ravenclaw a year behind him. He never paid attention to me. I don't think we even spoke, unless we met sometime in the library or on the Quidditch pitch."

"Anything you can remember would be valuable," Clearwater said. She was good at this when she wanted to be, Hermione thought grudgingly, lowering her voice as though she was coaxing a feral animal towards her. "Did he ever display mad behavior?"

"Not that I saw," Richards said. "We all looked up to him after the war, though. And it was bloody awful when he wasn't there." He looked self-consciously at Hermione, as if remembering that _she _hadn't been there, either, during the year that they'd been hunting Horcruxes. "He—maybe he let the attention go to his head? Maybe he was frustrated when he came to the Ministry after the war and realized he couldn't change things by snapping his fingers?"

Hermione didn't scowl, but only because she had already known she would hear distressing things. That was painfully close to the way Harry had expected things to go, yes. Hermione would be the last to say that her friend was really arrogant or thought he _deserved _his fame, but he had got used to the world falling over itself to please him. That had probably played its part in his impatience when he made suggestions and older, wiser heads in the Ministry put them down as the suggestions of an impulsive young fool.

"That's very helpful, Mr. Richards, thank you," the Minister said, and then turned and faced the Death Eater. The Aurors on either side of him held their wands more tightly, and the one on the left—Yoven, Hermione thought—reached out and tipped back the Death Eater's hood, carefully, as if any close contact with his skin would be contaminating.

Hermione took a long time to place the face that emerged, but did it when the prisoner began speaking. _Rabastan Lestrange._

"He came to the prison to see us," the man whispered. "He said that he was there to talk to us about redemption and—and things." He coughed, but Hermione didn't know if the sound was meant to be a laugh or simply a remnant of ill health from Azkaban. "But when he was with us, he tortured us and used Dark spells."

Hermione opened her mouth to deny that, and then remembered to close it and look at least vaguely ill. But her spirit was crying out in rejection. _They can't believe that. They'd be mad to believe that. _

_ The way they think Harry is?_

"Are you sure that it was Potter and not someone else?" Bountiful had a quick, snapping raven's voice, but Hermione had never heard it sound so eager as it did now. She would have leaned across the table and touched Lestrange if she could have, Hermione thought. "Your memories would be confused after such a long residence in Azkaban as you've had."

Lestrange cast her an arrogant glance. "You have no idea what my memories are like," he said. One of the Aurors next to him cast a charm, and he sagged back and adopted a pained expression, one that Hermione would have known was false even if she didn't know he was a Death Eater. "Only trying to help," he whined, "and I get treated like this."

"You're sure?" The Minister this time, her hands folded in front of her as if she was playing judge in the chamber of the Wizengamot.

"'Course," Lestrange said, and gave Hermione a nasty grin. She looked at it and then turned away to Clearwater.

Who was looking straight at her.

"Did you know about this, Mrs. Granger-Weasley?" So gentle, her voice, so terribly gentle. "Because I don't blame you for being shocked. No one had any idea that he was doing this, until one guard at Azkaban spoke to another guard, and they began to realize that just because they had trusted Harry Potter to behave himself didn't mean he had."

Hermione coughed. Then she forced herself to shake her head, although she felt as if she was betraying Harry. "No. I didn't know. It's—shocking."

_And this is a lie that they might get people to believe, since everyone by now knows how strongly Harry feels about justice._

Hermione would just have to find a way to ensure that not _too _many people believed it, after all.

* * *

"Malfoy! Can I speak to you?"

Draco turned around slowly, keeping a neutral expression on his face. He had found that it paid to play hard-to-get around Potter in the past few days. That meant those who were suspicious of him, including the Weasleys, had no reason to think that Draco was trying to get special access to him. And it gave Potter a reason to chase him, which Draco found gratifying on its own merits.

Plus, now that Potter had found him, he had done it in a private place, which would give Draco much more choice about what to report to the Ministry. He folded his arms and lounged against a wall, waiting with the same calm expression as Potter panted up to him.

"You're harder to get hold of than a Hit Wizard at five-o'clock," Potter said, bending over briefly to catch his breath. Then he straightened and fixed his eyes on Draco, before he could respond to the rather odd comparison. "I've wanted your advice for a while now about the books that you got me from the Manor."

Draco shrugged. "They're books. There should have been none of them that you couldn't read. I only brought the unwarded ones, and only the ones in English."

Potter shook his head and shot out his hand, hauling Draco along with him towards his rooms. Draco mentally noted that he hadn't given Potter permission to do that, but apparently permission was something that happened to lesser mortals. Potters took what they wanted.

"I meant about their contents," Potter said over his shoulder. "And how can we apply those to the revolution."

Draco ducked his head, because someone else might be coming along the corridor and would see—and despise—his smile. So it had happened at last, the change he had been waiting for. Potter trusted him enough, or needed his help enough, to look past the objections that the Weasleys would certainly have raised. Draco was stepping into the position of power where he could offer suggestions to Potter and have them taken seriously.

It was the position that his father had recommended to him strenuously in the past, especially in those feverish midnight talks they'd had before Lucius's condemnation to Azkaban. _Rule from the back, not the front, _his father had advised him, his hand tightening on Draco's in a hot, damp grip. _Don't be the Dark Lord, but the one the Dark Lord cannot live without, the one he turns his head to find._

It hadn't worked with You-Know-Who, and Draco knew why; by the time that he'd summoned Lucius, he was too crazy for anyone to hope to control. But Draco thought Potter was teetering on the edge of madness, not all the way there. There was, at least, hope.

"What are you thinking about, Malfoy?"

Draco started. He hadn't realized that Potter would want to know something like that _before _he started offering suggestions. He pulled himself sharply back, coughed, and said, "Whether you're crazy enough to use some of the other theories those books propose. Fortuna's Wheel is bad enough."

Potter shrugged. "I don't think Fortuna's Wheel is mad at all. It's a simple fact of nature—or magic, if you like—that not a lot of people know about."

Draco frowned. He would need to correct some of Potter's mistaken perceptions, he saw, especially concerning what was actually esoteric knowledge and what was not. "They _do _know about it," he said. "But the theory is considered crack-pated because so few people can actually make it work. The only reason you can is because you're powerful."

Potter looked as if he'd honestly never considered that before. Then he shrugged and said, "If the others can't make it work for the Aurors that I want to disarm, then I'll do it myself."

"Or figure out something else to do," Draco suggested softly, and then watched Potter closely. This would be an early test of his persuasive power.

Potter blinked once again, caught off-balance. Draco thought that a good thing, overall, but he would have to be careful about inducing this reaction in Potter around others. They might think that he had used the Imperius Curse or some kind of drug.

"Perhaps," Potter said. "If you can suggest anything that would work as well, and achieve our goals by making the Ministry unable to accuse innocents as effectively while letting the guilty go, then let me know."

It was sarcastic, but Draco knew well now how to come in under a sarcastic defense and launch a blow that would move Potter back. He smiled at him and shrugged a bit. "There's a technique called the Strangle."

"Sounds like a bare-handed fighting technique," Potter drawled back, but his eyes were alight.

Draco smiled more widely. "It's not. Shall I show you?"

Potter nodded, and this time Draco was the one who led the way to his rooms and the books that waited there, his blood thrumming in answer to the fire in Potter's eyes and his own hopes of success.

And the memory of the fire that he had already seen, once before.

_Under my guidance, this may become a real revolution._


	13. The Strangler

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Thirteen—The Strangler_

"What's this technique that you want to show me, then, Malfoy?"

Harry tried to keep the excitement out of his voice as he turned to face Malfoy. He was trying to keep calm around Malfoy in general, in fact, because showing too much excitement might reveal his plans.

Or, well, at least reveal how important those plans were to him. Contrary to what Ron and George and probably a bunch of other people—including Hermione—thought, Harry hadn't lost _all _distrust of Malfoy. But he had decided that he was more likely to get results out of him if he told him the same kind of thing that he eventually planned on telling everyone else, and working with the books that he brought along instead of frowning at them self-righteously and turning aside.

_Hermione still might say that carries risks, exposing myself the way I am by asking for help. It's giving Malfoy license to get closer to me, listening to what he has to say, putting value on his opinion._

Harry sighed. _That _was bound up with the feeling that he couldn't explain to anyone else, the feeling that woke him sweating from his dreams, the feeling that burned and bounded in his veins as though he was standing on the edge of a cliff and waiting to grow wings before he leaped. It was the feeling that said he could come up with a great many risky things to do, and do them, as long as he was the only one who paid the price.

If his wild magic killed him, at least he would be the only one dead. If he was the only one who ended up using the techniques that he discovered or pried out of the books, because other people felt squeamish using them, then he was the only one who would pay the price, and the ends they needed would still be accomplished.

It was acceptable.

"Potter?" Malfoy snapped his fingers in front of Harry's eyes, his expression impatient. "I'm waiting for you. I've tried to explain what the Strangler is twice now, and you're staring off into space as though you had much more important things to hear."

Harry cocked his head. There was an undercurrent in Malfoy's voice that he didn't understand, something thick as treacle tart. Perhaps he simply resented wasting his time, Harry thought. He _ought _to be familiar with the sound of resentment in Malfoy's words, after the history they had together.

"Sorry," he said. "What is it?"

Malfoy locked eyes with him and blew out enough air that his lips fluttered. Harry felt his own lips twitch, and tried to fight back the impulse. Malfoy would probably assume that Harry wasn't taking him seriously if he laughed at him. "It does what you want to do with Fortuna's Wheel," Malfoy said, "but with more magic and more spells at once. And it requires less effort and power than your means."

"Interesting," Harry said, "but I don't believe it."

Malfoy turned a look of burning contempt on him. It would have been a lot more effective if they hadn't been who they were. "Why not?" he asked, speaking between gritted teeth. "You—you have no reason not to believe me. You can look at the books if you'd like, but I doubt you'll understand half of what's in them, not with your education."

"What, the same education you received?" Harry asked, grinning at him. He had to admit that it was still kind of fun to bait Malfoy. Sure, it would set working with him back a bit, but Malfoy was so insufferably _serious. _He needed someone to take the piss out of him sometimes, teach him that there was more to life than being a wanker.

"I learned more than you ever did," Malfoy said, "from being in Slytherin House, from Professor Snape, from my parents." He paused, then added condescendingly, "But it's not as if you had parents, Potter, did you?"

Harry stared at him in fascination, especially because Malfoy turned pink in the next moment and seemed to regret his words. "You _enjoy _sabotaging yourself, don't you?" Harry asked after a pause. "Some masochistic part of you gets off on it."

Malfoy turned his back, bowing his head. His breathing came fast and loud in the confined space that was Harry's room, and when it hadn't stopped after a few minutes, Harry went up and touched him on the shoulder.

"I only said that I didn't believe you because if a technique like that existed, then lots of people would be using it," he said quietly. "I don't think they know about Fortuna's Wheel, or else they think the people who want to use it are mad, but what about this Strangler? It's written about more, it's known to work, it takes less power—why in the _world _wouldn't the Ministry have used it against us the minute we started the rebellion?"

"Because a Malfoy invented it," Malfoy said, his words so snappish that Harry stepped back before he could help himself. "Because it's never been inscribed or talked about outside our ancestral books. Does that make sense? Are you _happy_ now?"

Harry reacted before he thought, and touched Malfoy's shoulder again. "Then do you want to share it?" he asked. "Since you're the only free representative of your family right now. Maybe you should keep that to yourself—something about your heritage, some treasure, that the Ministry can't find and strip away."

This time, Malfoy whipped around to face him. His whole body seemed to go stiff and still in the wake of his turn, and Harry found his hand sitting somewhat awkwardly on his shoulder. He grimaced and removed it. Malfoy stared at it for long seconds, then transferred his stare to Harry's face.

"You don't understand," he said. "I'm teaching this to you in the first place because I want my parents free, and this will get you to attack Azkaban faster. Or had you forgotten that part of why I was here? Buried it, perhaps?"

Harry blinked. He hadn't expected Malfoy to react that way. He'd been—calm, so far. Well, calmer than Harry had any right to expect, when so many people cared so much about the revolution and Malfoy had come to them for a purely personal reason. A reason that Harry remembered now.

"I'm sorry," he said. "But you still have to consider whether this is going to work towards helping to free them. I'm going to attack Azkaban eventually. Do you want to give up a family secret to help me do that? Your parents might not share your perspective once they're free, and I wouldn't want to come between you and them."

Malfoy's face drooped and blanked with astonishment. Then he shook his head and said, "You can't persuade me that you care about them, not that way. I haven't heard you say anything like this to someone else."

"Maybe I care about you more," Harry said. "Because you're right in front of me or because you're offering to teach me, take your pick, but I do care." He paused, expecting an immediate answer, but Malfoy stared glassily into the distance instead. Harry decided to wait for him to respond.

Knowing Malfoy, even this different version of him, he wouldn't have to wait for long.

* * *

The last thing Draco had expected from Potter was compassion.

Interest, yes; Draco had been laboring to fix that by offering support to Potter and then ducking away from him, so that Potter would have to chase him down to find out what was going on. Taunting, yes, and distrust and anger and curiosity about what secrets might lie hidden in his books. But not this.

Draco swallowed and forced himself past this moment of wide-open interaction between him and Potter, as intriguing as it was. He needed—he needed to remember his parents, yes, but in the interests of getting them out of prison, not because Potter had stared at him with bright green eyes and suddenly seemed to transform the system Draco was working inside of. Ministry or revolution, he was still the only one who cared about his parents as people.

And he had shown a shameful tendency to neglect that over the last few days, spending more time on Potter and devices and tactics to win Potter's trust.

_Even if it's ultimately to win them free, I have to focus on them, they have to be the center of my world, not Potter and not the compassion that he can offer me to distract me._

In fact, that was probably the core of what Potter was telling him right now, distraction, rather than any wish that he could do something for Draco. Draco calmed down as he thought that, and swallowed, finally, the unexpected lump of food that Potter had handed him.

"I want them free before anything else," he said. "They can hate me after they're free, if they want. But right now, their situation is worse than any secret that I can expose to you."

"Somehow I doubt that's true," Potter said, eyeing him. "Or you wouldn't have reacted as you did to my suggestion."

Draco closed one hand into a loose fist behind his back, where Potter wouldn't see it. Potter wasn't supposed to be insightful, or notice things like the twitches of muscles and facial expressions. That was the world Draco reserved for himself and his parents.

"It's still true enough," he said. 'The Strangler is a spell that closes off the flow of magic in a wizard's body. Even if he uses another wand, it won't come to him, or _from _him; that might be the more important qualifier. And it'll last as long as you want to, and it can be cast on a great many people all at once."

Potter cocked his head. "Why did your father never use it against me during the war?"

"You weren't at your most dangerous when you were casting spells," Draco said. _For that matter, neither are you now. _While Potter was buried in his books, Weasley was the one leading the real rebellion, answering questions and training people to work together. Potter was a symbol for the ones who wanted to join them and needed an individual to fasten their hopes on. Draco knew, from some of his schoolmates' tales after the war, that he had been the same thing then, a distant, running figure that made all those focusing on him feel freer.

"And it probably wouldn't have worked to use it on Voldemort," Potter mused. "All right. Is there any chance that someone I cast it on would recognize the spell, or someone else would, and use that to turn against it us?"

Draco paused. He hadn't expected Potter to ask an actually intelligent question, he realized. Well, he would get over this shock as he'd got over the last one. "No," he said at last. "Not unless someone of Malfoy blood was with them, and for the last several generations, the Malfoy line has produced only one child at a time. Only one heir," he added pointedly, because Potter was looking at him as if to ask why he hadn't wanted siblings. "There's no one of the blood who would recognize the spell and still know the secret of resisting it."

"All right," Potter said, backing up a step as though he assumed that the spell would need a lot of room. "We'll try it now."

Draco's hand clenched a moment before he reached for his wand. He hated to imagine what his father would think of him now, taking orders from someone.

_The way he took orders from the Dark Lord?_

But Draco shook his head to himself. That had been a different situation, an aberrant one, one that would never happen again. His father wouldn't be pleased that Draco had seemingly ignored its lesson and was committing himself to another war as a follower.

But what his father wanted didn't matter very much right now.

He held up his wand and conjured an illusion of the Minister into being across from them, going by photographs of her he'd seen lately in the papers. Potter started and his eyes narrowed, although he wasn't stupid enough to attack or ask if Draco had somehow summoned her here. For a moment, Draco debated switching back to the Ministry's side just so that he could do that someday and fool Potter for a moment.

Then he scowled. He hadn't chosen a _side. _Not as such. At least, not a commitment that he couldn't back away from if he had to. But he knew what the Ministry would say to such a claim, which made it a little hard for him to take it seriously.

Facing the Minister, Draco murmured, "There is only one incantation, but you must use all your strength of will to ensure that it takes. Do you understand me?"

Potter nodded, rapt. His eyes were huge, and Draco thought he would see reflections of his soul in them if he looked long enough. The thought made him grind his teeth in irritation. He wasn't supposed to feel such sentimental nonsense.

He wasn't supposed to feel anything but determination to get his parents free, he remembered. The Strangler would help him do that. And in the end, he would make sure that the choice to remember it was taken from Potter.

_One way or another._

"_Ango veneficium, ango animam, ango pollentiam_," he said, and then began to repeat it again and again, in rushing breaths, doing his best to echo with his words the speed of the magic that thundered through his veins. His breath was coming faster and faster, on the edge of screaming. His body yearned forwards, although he kept it firmly in place. The wand shook in his hand. The world wavered around him, turning dull and blank at the edges. The shout of unleashed strength through his skull was like a wave.

He would drown in the wave if he let go of the spell. That was the other reason that the Strangler was not more commonly used. True, it didn't take as much raw power as turning Fortuna's Wheel did, but it was far more likely to devour the practitioner alive.

The construct of Minister Clearwater shimmered. Draco felt the magic rush out of him and settle around her in a richly-colored net, which was visible for only a moment, looking like strands of silver set with emeralds, before it faded. Draco nodded in exhaustion, and then stepped back to catch himself with one hand on the nearest table.

He turned to Potter, intending to tell him that he should cast a spell at the image of the Minister and see what happened.

He found Potter standing still, transfixed, eyes locked on Draco as if he were the hinge on which the universe turned for the moment.

Draco stared back. His dry tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and even a few attempts to cough and work it loose with saliva had no effect. Potter's eyes might have been pins holding Draco still; the aching air around him might have been metal that would convey an electric charge straight to his groin. That was what it felt like, the burn through him.

Then Potter visibly shuddered, shook himself loose of whatever fascination had held him, and looked at the floor. He cleared his throat. "So, um, that's it, then?" he asked, with a horrid attempt at nonchalance. "I reckon that it doesn't often get cast without an opponent interrupting you."

Draco narrowed his eyes. He knew that Potter was reaching for the clumsiest complaint he could to deliberately break the mood, but that didn't mean Draco gave up the right to be annoyed with it. "If they don't know what it is, or if you're attacking in company with allies, they don't get to interrupt it," he said coolly. "And once you say the spell the first time, with your target in mind, you have a fix on them. They can't attack back or prevent it from happening. But you do have to be careful that no one else interrupts you."

"What happens if they do?" Potter asked.

Draco flinched and wrapped his arms around himself. Of course he'd never seen anyone destroyed from miscasting the Strangler, since only his family knew it, but he had read accounts of it happening, and that was more than enough. "You felt the magic I was carrying around with me," he said quietly. "What do you think?"

Potter nodded as if that was answer enough for him, and it might be. He faced the construct of the Minister and cast a spell at her without being told to, either, which made Draco—grudgingly—have to revise his estimate of Potter's intelligence up.

That didn't mean it had far to go, of course.

"_Stupefy!_" Potter yelled, and the Stunner rushed out of his wand and slammed into the Minister. The illusion that Draco had created wasn't realistic enough to fall over to the ground in front of the Stunner, but that wasn't the point. The Strangler was still in effect, and the red beam faded a few inches from the construct's hand, without touching her.

Potter hissed beneath his breath and paced in a circle, examining the construct intently. Draco sagged back against the table and smiled at him.

"But it seems that it would take away your enemy's magic only to give them a stronger power," Potter said. "If you can't use magic on them—"

"The caster of the Strangler still can," Draco said. "Besides, you didn't try indirect magic. The dead zone only extends around their bodies." He aimed his wand at the floor and said, "_Frango!_"

The floor shivered and cracked, a wide split opening at the construct's feet. Potter watched closely, and Draco had the impression that he was calculating distances of how near the spell could come to the dead zone the Strangler created before it was neutralized. Draco was impressed despite himself. He hadn't known that Potter would ever realize such mental operations existed.

"I see," Potter murmured. "I'd like to know how it feels from the inside, though. Would you cast it on me?" He tossed his wand to Draco, which, despite the way Draco was feeling—as though _he _had been hit by a Stunner—he caught instead of dropping.

"But then you'd have to trust me to take it off again," Draco said.

"Exactly," Potter said, and stood there looking at him as if this was utterly reasonable.

Draco bit the inside of his cheek and told himself to stop being stupid. If Potter wanted to put himself at Draco's mercy, then he could, and Draco might have the chance to learn something new about his magic. Why was he hesitating so much?

Because it could be a chance for Potter's fellow revolutionaries to blame him. And because he didn't understand _why _this was happening, and that bothered him. And because Potter wasn't—well, Draco had come into the revolution and played hard to get over the last few days with the understanding that Potter had one kind of personality. It would throw off too many of his calculations if he turned out to be wrong.

There were other reasons, deeper than all these, but those were the only ones Draco was going to admit to his conscious mind. He gritted his teeth and raised his wand.

"You _can _reverse it?" Potter said just then, with a lack of concern that was astounding to Draco.

"Yes, of course," Draco said sharply, and then his emotions escaped his control for a moment and flooded his voice. "You _stupid _bastard, why would you trust me near you with a wand at all? Do you know what your friends would say?"

"Yes," Potter said. "You're here. They're not. And if you can't reverse it, then you'll have problems that cost you a lot more in concern and worrying about revenge than the pleasure cursing me would provide. That wouldn't lead to them helping you in any way at all, much less helping you to free your parents. I'll take the chance."

Draco shook his head, but it wasn't in refusal. Yes, Potter had thrown off his calculations again, but now that Draco thought of it, it was consistent with the way that Potter had spoken to the crowd about turning Fortuna's Wheel and the way he had used the fire on the Inferi. He must be going mad after all.

Or—something else.

Draco cast the Strangler before he could think about what else it might be.

* * *

Harry closed his eyes. He didn't know what the Strangler would feel like from the inside, but he expected it would be uncomfortable. The illusion of Minister Clearwater couldn't show the pain at all, of course.

And yet, it felt like nothing in the end except for a wave of cold water breaking over him, which was unpleasant enough in and of itself, but no worse than the Disillusionment Charm. Harry blinked and opened his eyes.

Then he discovered the difference.

His magic had hummed comfortingly beneath his heart while he was speaking with Malfoy, while he was killing the Inferi, while he was studying Fortuna's Wheel, when he burned Minister Duplais, and every other moment of significance he could remember in the past seven years. It was gone, now. He listened for the song and heard dead silence. He thought it would have been better if he'd suddenly been stricken deaf.

He licked his lips and did his best to face Malfoy without flinching. Malfoy held his wand, but that didn't matter, Harry told himself, because he was _also _the only one in the room at the moment who had magic. Harry knew that his wand would have been a useless piece of wood if he'd held it.

"Potter?" Malfoy was watching him closely.

That made Harry's spine stiffen. He couldn't panic in front of Malfoy. He would either never hear the end of it or Malfoy would give him that kind of careful respect that you showed someone whom you had seen break down once.

Harry nodded. "It's interesting," he said. "And yes, I see why it would be a useful spell. Do you think there's a chance of the Ministry picking up on it if they hear you cast it in battle?"

"It would be most useful if we cast it from a distance," Malfoy said. "And the number of other people I would be willing to show it to are limited."

Harry relaxed. "That would also lessen the chance of someone else interfering when we were casting the spell, I reckon," he muttered.

Malfoy nodded. "Do you want me to remove the spell?" He looked ashen, Harry noticed, and then realized it probably came from casting that powerful spell twice in succession.

"Of course," Harry said. "But only if you can."

"Breaking it is much less effort than casting it," Malfoy said, and murmured something soft as he waved his wand in a curving pattern like the path of a pendulum. Harry watched it carefully, and nodded when he thought he had it.

"Thank you," he said, as magic charged through his veins and the song burst into life again beneath the song of his heart.

Malfoy nodded, tossed his wand back to him, hesitated, and then added, "Why did you trust me to cast it on you?"

"It's for your benefit as well as anyone else's that you not leave it on me permanently," Harry said, fingering the wand and thinking how wonderful it was to both have it and be able to use it. "And I would have trusted Ron and Catchers and lots of other people to cast it on me."

Malfoy turned and left abruptly. Harry stared after him. He wondered for a moment whether Malfoy was insulted to be compared to people like Ron.

Only later did he wonder how rare casual confessions of trust had been for Malfoy.


	14. Extending the Evil

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Fourteen—Extending the Evil_

George leaned back and squinted at the wheel in front of him. He thought it was almost finished, but he had thought that twice before now, and each time he had turned out to be wrong.

_I would have told you if you were right, _Fred's voice murmured in his ear. _Honestly, George, your biggest fault is that you keep—_

"Questioning you and doubting you," George muttered, rolling his eyes. "I knew that. But remember who actually has the hands around here."

_Remember who has the genius, _Fred retorted.

George started to respond, but someone knocked on the door. George tugged the small gold chain that lay beside his left hand, and it, in turn, pulled on a button embedded in the table that made a ward outside the door come to life. The ward would deposit an image of who stood outside the door in front of his eyes, and George could decide how he should act when that person came into the room—or if he should worry about letting them inside at all.

This time, it was Harry, and he was staring off into the distance with an abstracted expression on his face that George recognized. The device he'd finished wasn't the one that would keep Harry sane, but he silently resolved to speed up their production of the next one. Fred murmured in wordless agreement in the back of his head; this was one of those issues where they didn't need to speak aloud to understand each other's thoughts.

"Come in, Harry," George called, disarming the traps on the door with another tap of his fingers. Harry took him at his word and came in almost before the protections were gone, glancing around the lab casually.

"I hadn't seen this before," he murmured. George blinked at him, and then realized that he was looking at the maps that George had covered the walls with, in pursuit of their latest project. He shrugged modestly.

"They're only copies of the maps that everyone else has," he reassured Harry. "We haven't been keeping anything from the rest of the revolution."

One thing George liked about Harry was that he didn't stop and stand there visibly debating whether he should acknowledge the "we" that George used. He just nodded and went straight into what he'd come here for. "Have you finished the last device we discussed yet?"

George smiled. He was proud of both what they'd accomplished and its form. "Yes," he said, and flourished a hand at the wheel in the center of the table.

Harry sucked in his breath, and approached it as if he were afraid that the vibrations of his steps through the floor would shake the wheel to pieces. George laughed. "It isn't _that _fragile," he reassured Harry. "It can't be, or we wouldn't be able to use it in the field."

Harry nodded again, apparently accepting that, but still reached out cautiously. "I assume I can touch it?" he added, looking over his shoulder at George.

"Yes," George said, approving his caution. It really was too bad that it hadn't worked out so that Harry could marry Ginny. George and Fred would both have enjoyed having a brother like Harry, who asked about touching rather than assuming it was safe the way Ron did. The last time Ron had come into the design room, he'd got a concussion, and after George _told _him not to touch anything.

Harry picked up the wheel and turned it over. George leaned back in his chair and unfocused his eyes for a moment, trying to see the wheel the way that someone else, a stranger like Harry, would. Fred murmured instructions that George could use; he'd always been better at that, and had usually made the introductions of the stranger-looking devices in the shop.

The wheel was made of brass polished to look like gold, and hollow in the center, around the shining spokes. The axles and the double rim of the wheel itself were covered with long slivers of silver and diamond. Harry had winced when George first told him what he needed to build the wheel, but as George had suspected, it hadn't been a problem once they raided the back supplies of the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes shop and sold some of the stranger and less useful gifts that the rebels had brought with them

In the center of the wheel, serving as the main attractor for an observer as well as the device itself, was a second wheel, this one made of brass except for the staring eye in the exact center of _that_. Harry reached out with one finger, and George reached up and caught his finger. Fred, who'd shrieked, settled down with a huff.

_You always did freak out about nothing, _George taunted his brother, and winked at Harry. "Sorry, mate. That's the one point that it's not _quite _safe to touch, unless you want to call them here and now."

Harry's throat worked as he swallowed. "I'll remember that," he said hoarsely. "Can you—does it—did you make it of emerald on purpose?"

George smiled at him. "Yes. You're going to be the one who uses it, and the sympathetic resonances between you and the wheel should be as strong as possible. We had trouble finding an emerald the exact color of your eyes, though." He shuddered. He hated some of the finer points of detail work, and combing through hundreds of stones over a few evenings, the glass held close to his eye so that Fred could see it better, would rank among some of his least favorite memories ever.

Harry couldn't perhaps appreciate the full extent of the sacrifice, but he did let his hand rest on George's shoulder for a second, giving him a hard squeeze. "Thanks," he said. "I appreciate that." He put the wheel back on the table and studied it again. "No tests with this one, I reckon?"

George shook his head. "It'd give away too much right now. But as soon as you want to, you can use it."

"How certain are you that it'll work?" Harry asked.

"Ninety-nine percent," George said, beaming at him. "And the other one percent is all Fred's fault."

Harry laughed at that, which George also liked, and considered the wheel with his head held on the side. "It can be taken along when we Apparate?" he asked. "And when we fly on brooms? I'm not sure how we'll get there. In fact, we might not be able to Apparate, but it's better to be prepared."

"It ought to survive either," George said, and gave in to the impatience that Fred was poking at him like a rusty stick. "Are you ever going to tell me _where _we'll use our little invention?"

Harry smiled at him, and the smile promised exciting things to come, shining with the emotions that George felt himself when he heard. "Azkaban, George. I'm thinking of Azkaban."

* * *

Draco tossed his third report for the Ministry into the fire and leaned back on the bed, his hands folded behind him on the pillow. To someone entering the room, he reckoned, he would have looked relaxed, but his brain buzzed with the effort of furious thought, and he knew that he would never get to sleep until he addressed it.

Should he have taught Potter the Strangler? All his doubts had resurfaced the moment Potter gave him such a demonstration of trust. That could mean that he thought he controlled Draco, or at least wanted to think so, and _that _meant that he would do something unfortunate fairly soon. Not to mention the ancient family traditions that argued only a Malfoy should ever know the spell—a true Malfoy. Someone who married a Mudblood or did something else that disgraced the family would have their memory of the spell carefully removed.

Draco sometimes feared that he would destroy his family heritage in the attempt to preserve it.

He had said that his father wasn't there and didn't have the right to make the choice, but on the other hand, he would be free soon if Potter kept his promise. And that meant Draco wouldn't be able to ignore Lucius's wants and desires anymore.

If he even wanted to.

Draco balled his left hand up into a fist and slammed it into his hip. He welcomed the resulting bruise and the slight ache in his leg. He wouldn't even _have _to do this if it weren't for confusing Potter and the way he kept changing his mind and giving voice to new ideas that disrupted Draco's old ones.

Potter had accepted the Strangler being cast on him, and hadn't panicked or screamed in outrage the way Draco had imagined he would. That meant he _had _to be mad, didn't it? No one who was sane could remain calm when his magic was taken, much less talk to Draco the way Potter had.

And to trust him to reverse it…

Draco rolled over and drove his face into the pillow. He thought that a new position might help clarify his thoughts, but instead they bumped and zoomed through his mind as frenetically as ever, like insects caught in a jar.

There was no denying that Potter was mad, and so Draco's statements to the Minister on that head could just as easily be truth as lies. That meant Draco had to decide, _again, _if Potter's revolution was really more likely to give him what he wanted than the Ministry was. Yes, the rebellion would attack Azkaban—eventually—and it would free his parents, or Draco would know why. But if it had a mad leader, then it might fall apart before it got to that stage.

Or Potter might decide to accuse Draco of treachery and try to kill him as easily as he'd decided to trust him today.

Draco closed his eyes and began to count backwards from one hundred, which always took him into sleep. But his thoughts remained coherent long enough for one last, unpleasant explanation to suggest itself to him.

Potter could be sane. But Draco found it easier to believe he was mad than to believe that someone might really extend a hand of friendship to Draco himself and see him as a person.

* * *

Hermione let herself fall dizzily into her bed. She had spent a second day, all day, with the committee to investigate Harry's background, and her throat hurt from talking and her eyes were dry from squinting. She was always watching people's eyes and hands, trying to see what they were gesturing to on parchment so crowded with writing that they could be pointing at almost any word, trying to see if they suspected her bland words hid a much stronger and more pointed truth.

She didn't know that she wanted to be a spy any longer. It was certainly nothing like as exciting as books made it sound. She always suspected that she had missed something, even when she simultaneously suspected she hadn't.

_That's the hell of it, _she thought drowsily, rolling over and casting a spell that would pull off her boots for her. That was the sort of practical, everyday charm that some people ought to learn instead of relying on house-elves all the time. _If you miss something, you won't know that you have until you do._

The room was dim, normally enough to make her fall asleep at once. But now she lay awake, chewing her lip, and remembered the parade of witnesses they'd brought in that day, all of them swearing that they'd seen Harry come to Azkaban and torture several of the former Death Eaters.

Guards, other prisoners, the man who ran the ferry that regularly crossed to Azkaban since no Apparition was permitted there, more Death Eaters. Hermione thought they had to be lying—she couldn't picture Harry indulging in casual torture—but at least a few of them seemed reluctant to tell their stories.

And she had never thought that Harry would burn someone to death before it happened, either.

Hermione tightened her mouth into a thin line and shook her head. No. The Ministry wouldn't make her doubt or give up faith in Harry unless she absolutely had to, unless she heard the confession from his mouth or Ron's—and Ron had been his partner, which meant he knew a lot more about what Harry did day-to-day than Hermione did—or saw the memories in a Pensieve.

And even if Harry did turn out to be less than she thought him, more mad or more dangerous, that wouldn't make the cause he was fighting for any less important.

* * *

Harry woke abruptly. He knew he'd been in the middle of a long dream where he'd been arguing with people. That seemed all he did nowadays, argue with people: with Malfoy over whether he should learn the Strangler, with Ron over what they should do next with the rebellion, with the people who were learning to turn Fortuna's Wheel about whether or not it would work. This argument was in a room he had never seen before and with people he had never seen before, but that didn't mean much.

Now he was staring into darkness, and hearing a sound repeat: a soft, snuffling, questing sound, as though someone was working his or her way along the edge of a potion spill and trying to tell from the smells what ingredients had been used.

Or else, something was making _its _way.

Harry sat up with his wand in hand and cast one of the charms that he had learned when he was trying to make his wild magic function for him. The light that came from his wand was a soft and private thing, shining through his fingers as he cupped them around the end of the wand, but visible to no one else. Harry remembered about the visibility a moment later and shook his head at himself while he took his hand away.

The room in front of him looked like always. Four corners, large bed that echoed the four-posters he'd known at Hogwarts, solid walls, more windows than he knew what to do with. Harry had sometimes dreamed of a large house to live in when he was locked in his cupboard, but even then, the rooms hadn't had lots of windows, because he didn't want to spend his time sitting in front of them and staring out them all day, and windows weren't _good _for anything else.

The sniffling sound repeated. Harry turned towards the nearest corner and lifted his wand higher. The charm glowed and flickered and made it light up as if he'd thrust a torch towards it.

The figure that appeared was so thin that it took Harry a moment to realize what he was seeing. Not a solid creature, despite the noises it made; its footsteps were silent as it prowled towards him.

A shadow.

A hound made of shadow, its nose lowered to the floor as though it was tracking a particularly hard-to-find scent. Harry could see a faint glow from the head that he thought might be its eyes. They were yellow-green and had the hard surface shininess of stones.

As he stared in uneasy fascination, the hound abruptly jerked its head up and stared straight at him. Its jaws parted, and a warbling bark came out.

Other shadow-hounds leaped silently into being from the other corners of the room, congregating in the middle in what looked like a mass of lavender smoke. Harry saw one of them crouch as if to leap, and he automatically fired off a Stunner.

The curse went straight through the dog's body without slowing down, or slowing _it _down. The dog elongated as it flew towards him, stretching thinner and thinner like a spear, and it was too close for another spell in less than a heartbeat. Harry raised a hand, but felt nothing more than a faint cool sensation as the hound soared through his hand and into his eye. He knew it went into his eye because he saw a faint dark speck there that had faded by the time he managed to blink.

Harry stood there, waiting for another dog to leap at him, but the rest of the pack lolled back on their haunches and waited. Harry cast a Stunner at them to discourage them, but they only stared and panted and showed no change.

Then he heard the bay of a hound inside his own skull, and felt his heartbeat accelerate as though he was running away from it.

Harry sat down in the bed and put his head in his hands. He was fine, he told himself multiple times, while the bay got louder and his body reacted the way it used to react when Dudley and his friends chased him. He was sitting here. The hounds couldn't actually touch or affect him. This was a magical sending from the Ministry, undoubtedly, but all it meant was that he was seeing and hearing some strange things. That was nothing to someone who had survived visions from Voldemort for months.

The baying filled his thoughts, shaking the world. Harry gripped his head in his hands for a moment and wondered if the purpose of the dogs was to make him wonder if he was crazy or sane for the rest of his life. Or maybe it was just meant to prevent him from getting sleep. That could mimic madness sometimes.

The bay surged hot and hard and triumphant, and Harry fell to the bed, paralyzed abruptly, as the feeling of teeth tore into his body.

They were coming from nowhere, just as the sound was. Harry thrashed and kicked the moment the first pain passed, but it was no good; he could still feel the sensations of jaws digging deep, twisting and worrying him the way they would worry a rabbit. Harry pushed himself up with one hand and turned towards the door, intending to fetch George. He might know what these dogs were or at least be able to build a defense against them.

Then came the moment of death.

Harry screamed at the blackening in his brain, the fading blood-beat, the moment when he felt as though he was being sucked down a vast tunnel towards a dark star at the bottom. Then it was gone, and he was still alive, shaking, but with the knowledge that he had _died_, that that had been the instant he had somehow managed to forget when he died to save the world from Voldemort.

He was alive.

But another hound was preparing to leap at him, and Harry thought that, in all likelihood, it would happen again in a few minutes.

His fingers shook as he fumbled for his wand, and this time, when the dog came at him, he cast a Shield Charm. The dog still passed through it as if it were a shadow, though, and slipped into his brain at the eye. Harry stumbled to the door, hearing the first bays, his hand on the knob.

He wished for Hermione. She might have heard of something like this; she might be able to tell him what it was and how he could end it.

But he did have George, and he would find him and hope that he could whip up an invention that would prevent Harry from dying too many more times.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw that the crowd of hounds had loped into the middle of the room, following him. When he took another step out into the corridor—he couldn't even hear the step, his brain was so filled with the commanding echoes of the hound's cry—they flowed forwards.

Harry shook his head. He knew the group had got bigger since he first saw them. The thought of having to suffer this hundreds of times, or thousands, made him turn around clumsily so that he could run.

Instead of George standing there, or someone neutral, it was Malfoy he smashed into. Malfoy stumbled back and caught Harry by the elbows, keeping him from measuring his length on the floor. Harry grunted his thanks and then fought free. He already knew from the curious look that Malfoy gave behind him that he didn't see anything, and so he would probably think the hounds were a product of Harry's mind. Harry didn't want to listen to any acid comments on his sanity, thank you very much. He would fight hard enough to keep that until George could come up with an invention.

The hound's bays were so loud that Harry really had to concentrate to make out Malfoy's words.

"What's happening, Potter? I couldn't sleep, but I know that you don't often have that problem."

Harry shook his head. "Need to find George," he said, and then wondered if all his words had come out correctly, because Malfoy was giving him a very strange look. "I can't explain, and you don't want to hear. Let me pass."

Malfoy only shifted so that Harry was leaning against his shoulder instead of fighting free. That made Harry almost want to cry; he'd spent so much time trying, and now he was being held back. But he firmed his jaw and held still as best he could. If he died in front of Malfoy, then maybe Malfoy would acknowledge something was wrong.

"What is it?" Malfoy murmured to him, right in his ear, because he seemed to have picked up on the fact that Harry couldn't hear well. "Tell me, and I might be able to help, or at least give you some advice."

Harry gritted his teeth in annoyance. He didn't want to be here, especially when he could feel his heart going mad at the approach of the hound, and the pain surging up and down his sides was spectacular enough to make him faint all by itself. But he worked his tongue into some semblance of obedience and managed to answer.

"There—a pack of shadows appeared in my room. Shadow hounds. Two of them have gone into my head, and no spells I cast could stop them. The first one—killed me. I felt as if I'd died. And the second one's going to do it."

He forced his fluttering eyes open and stared at Malfoy, willing him to understand. Malfoy's glance at him was startled, but a moment later, a frown crossed his face, and he nodded. "I've heard of that," he said. "The hounds can only be commanded by a certain Dark artifact, one that the Ministry has been rumored to have for a long time. I think I know a counterspell, but it's Dark. Does that bother you?"

"Just—"

The moment of death again, the expanding nothingness and the helpless falling. Harry came back to himself shaking, unable to reject the support of Malfoy's arms as they wrapped around his shoulders and waist.

"Just help me," Harry whispered. "I don't care what spell you use. I really think this is going to kill me for real, or drive me mad."

"Of course it is," Malfoy said, with a slightly impatient snap in his voice. "That would be the purpose of sending them after you." He laid Harry down against a wall and moved forwards, putting himself between Harry and the hounds. Harry thought that was sheer good luck, since Malfoy still didn't act as if he could see them, but the hounds tumbled to a halt and stared up with narrowed, gleaming eyes.

Malfoy began to chant. Harry saw a third hound crouch, and would have added his voice to the spell if he knew how.

_Strange, _he thought, closing his eyes in the futile hope that it would help keep the hound away, _that I would rely on Malfoy to help me so much._

There was an important thought there, but the first exploding bay chased it from Harry's head. He gritted his teeth and hung on as best he could to the shaped, flowing syllables of Malfoy's words.

And hoped.


	15. Before the Hunting Horn

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Fifteen—Before the Hunting Horn_

Draco had told Potter the truth. These dogs _could _only be controlled by a Dark artifact that it was rumored the Ministry possessed. And Draco knew a Dark spell that he thought could get rid of them.

But that was as far as the truth went. He had never performed the spell before, and he had read about the artifact only once or twice as he browsed through his family's books in search of something else. He had remembered the fact mostly because Fudge had been going through one of his phases of proclaiming that the Ministry destroyed all Dark artifacts that it confiscated, rather than handing them over to the Department of Mysteries as rumors persisted in saying. And even then, Draco had simply sneered and passed on.

But then he had seen Potter sag in his arms, his cheeks paling and his eyes so wide and glazed that Draco knew he was seeing the artifact really work. That was _death. _Potter had _died. _And at the very least, if he didn't die from the hounds' repeated attacks on his mind and body—which Draco thought he very well might, since those attacks included stopping his heart at least some of the time—then he would go mad.

Draco's plans could stretch to include a mad Potter, but he preferred the one he had been working with so far, who at least seemed in control of the more peculiar manifestations of his lunacy and aware of what other people might think of them. Trying to work with Weasley to free his parents would be impossible.

Draco knelt down in front of Potter and rested his wand on the man's collarbone. Potter stared back at him, his lips set as if he resented the necessity for asking for Draco's help. Draco relaxed at the familiar sight.

"_Incendio animam_," he said.

Potter's eyes widened, probably because he recognized the first word of that spell, but Draco had already clamped a hand on his shoulder, holding him before he could move. And the fire that grew from his wand a moment later looked exactly like the books said it should, pale, curling silvery fire that walked on slender feet up and down Draco's wand.

"What does the incantation mean?" Potter whispered, in a papery voice. He winced suddenly and clutched at his head. Probably hearing the bays of the hound draw closer and closer, Draco thought grimly. Well, he could only work so fast.

"I burn the soul," Draco said, and clamped his hand down again as a shiver flooded through Potter's muscles. "We're not nearly done."

Potter went still and frowned at him. "You were saying something like that in my dream the other night," he muttered, distracted. "I can't remember the context of the dream, but I remember the words."

Draco shook his head, deciding that the pain and the fear flooding through Potter's veins had probably made him delirious, and repeated the incantation. This time, the coil of silver fire assumed a definite shape. A long muzzle poked at Draco out of the flames, and bright eyes watched him for a moment before they dissolved.

Again Draco said the spell, and this time the creature formed fully, sitting on the end of the wand and twitching its tail as it regarded him.

It was a fox, but a fantasy dream of a fox, the eyes large and exaggerated, the paws large and soft as a rabbit's, the ears poking up at an absurd angle. Draco would have liked to reach out and caress the thick pelt. He restrained himself, because he was pouring enough will into the spell already without the distraction.

"You know what you came for," he said, "what you were made for. There are hounds to run from."

The fox twitched and then leaned around him to stare at an empty patch of corridor behind him, the same one Potter kept focusing on. Draco was willing to wager that the hounds conjured by the spell were right there, although he couldn't see them. Well, he would use the fox to keep track of them; Potter looked too out of it right now to keep track of anything.

"Don't you want to lead them a dance?" he whispered. The book had talked about the importance of persuasion. "Don't you want to lead them a chase? Don't you want to show them what _real _prey is?"

The fox trembled with sudden eagerness, then paused and looked at him again. Draco tilted his head down until his nose was an inch from the thing's fine whiskers.

"You could escape them," he whispered. "That they would catch you isn't inevitable. There are a lot of them, but your paws are fleet, and your tail is all they would ever see. You can keep them from biting your tail off, couldn't you? Because you're a _swift _fox. The swiftest fox the world has ever seen."

The creature danced back and forth, tail whisking around it, its muzzle rising and falling as it apparently yipped. Draco couldn't hear the yips, if that was the case. Draco turned around so that the fox could see Potter.

"That's what they hunt right now," he told the fox, "through his mind. A pitiful specimen, I'm sure you'll agree. He can't even run."

The fox held up its head and sniffed agreement. Potter just stared at them both for long moments, until his eyes closed in a spasm of pain and he brought his hands up to grip his head.

"So much better," Draco said, coaxing and seductive by turns. He would have felt ridiculous talking this way to a fox conjured of magical fire if he let himself, but he had done a lot worse with many other spells. "You could show them so much better. You could _be _so much better. You're the most beautiful fox ever born. You're the fastest. You're the cleverest. You'll be licking sweat from your whiskers while they're still trotting up and down, belling and trying to find your trail."

The fox wavered, body squirming for a moment as though it was going to spring past him and rush into Potter's mind all on its own. Then it turned and gave him one more doubtful look. Draco cooed at it, and hoped that Potter wasn't awake enough to hear him and think that he was a ponce or a pushover.

The fox seemed to dip its head in a final nod, although Draco was probably imagining that, and then sprang. For a long moment, its diminishing, fading body was stretched out before him, like an image stretched out in a painting. Draco watched and wondered if that was what the hounds looked like to Potter as they came hammering home to his brain.

Potter gasped, his eyes fluttering open wide. Draco leaned closer to him, as much to keep someone else from coming down the corridor, seeing him like that, and blaming Draco as to support him, and waited.

* * *

Harry couldn't believe his mental eyes. One moment, he'd heard nothing but the bays, seen nothing but darkness behind his eyes, because every defensive image he tried to conjure up out of long-ago memories of Occlumency lessons dissolved the next time the hound cried—

And now he could see forest glades. They were bright and green, so many of them appearing to him that he wasn't sure whether they were all separate images or just the same place seen from different angles, and through each of them a stream ran, singing. It was a bright day, with sun reaching everywhere under the trees. They were high and thick, grass barely able to grow beneath the branches, but Harry could still see.

In the middle of one clearing appeared the silver fox that he had last seen balanced on Malfoy's wand, its whiskers quivering so hard that Harry wondered if it was frightened. But it didn't run. Instead, it stood there, its tail moving, and then glanced over its shoulder with a motion that reminded Harry of Ginny when she flirted.

The hound appeared, hurtling through the clearing. It had started to bay, but when it saw the fox, it cut the sound off in mid-cry and stared, its tongue spilling over its teeth.

The fox lifted one delicate foot, turned around slowly, and proceeded to walk into the trees, brush swinging high behind it. The hound watched it go, glimmering eyes stretched so wide that Harry wondered if it was afraid, if it would take the bait that he suddenly knew the fox was.

Then the hound opened its jaws wider than Harry had yet seen them open for him and hurled a yell into the open air. It bounded forwards, and behind it, flooding the forest with purple shadow, hurtling along with it as it shone, came the other hounds. Dog after dog after dog, an immense hunting pack, fanning out so that the trees were full of them and there was never a moment when one of them wasn't springing over the stream.

Harry stared. He thought that was all the hounds he had seen when he looked at them in his room, though of course he couldn't be sure. And they continued to come, piling into his brain. They were baying, but the baying no longer hurt him. Instead, it was all focused on the fox, which coursed ahead of them with the same shy and flirtatious manner. It was running faster than Harry knew he could ever have gone.

That was what Malfoy had done. He had created something that the hounds wanted to pursue more than they wanted to pursue Harry. Harry didn't know why—maybe it was because they were dogs and it was a fox and that would always be more tempting than human prey—but he didn't care. He was free.

He opened his eyes. Malfoy was watching him, still leaning absurdly close, one elbow on Harry's left shoulder, his wand right under his collarbone.

Harry nodded. It took him a moment to find the saliva or the will to speak, but he managed it quickly, he thought, considering what had happened to him. "Thanks. They're chasing the fox now." He paused as he watched Malfoy close his eyes and nod, then gave in to his curiosity. "Why did you call that a Dark spell?"

Malfoy opened his eyes and studied him again. "I had to persuade the fox into your mind. The spell creates prey clever enough to trick the hounds for a little while, and tempting enough to compel them to chase it. The problem is, that means it's also intelligent enough not to just obey orders, but to have to be persuaded."

"For a little while?" Harry repeated.

"They're going to tear it apart," Malfoy said. "What I said to it was flattery, not the truth. The Dark part comes from creating an animal that lives, in a way, and then sending it to die in your place. Its death will be for real. You won't feel it," he added quickly, perhaps because Harry's expression had changed. "You don't have to see the rest of the hunt, if you don't want to. Keep your eyes on other things, think about other things, and it shouldn't come back to haunt you. The connection between you and the fox was broken soon after it took your place in the hunt."

Harry shook his head. "I know it's only a piece of magic," he said, when he saw Malfoy looking narrow-eyed at him, and guessed the next words would be something about not being stupid. "But—I'm conducting this war on the principle that I can make the sacrifices and learn the necessary knowledge alone, and even use things like Fortuna's Wheel and the Strangler by myself if no one else wants to use them. To have someone else die in my place feels—wrong."

Malfoy leaned nearer still. "What?" he whispered.

Harry stared back. He didn't understand the mood that had come over Malfoy, which meant he instinctively distrusted it. "I think you heard me," he said.

"I did." Malfoy sat back on his heels and examined Harry with a frankness that was disturbing. "I simply thought I hadn't, because what you are thinking is so _phenomenally _stupid. You really believe that the rebellion can afford to lose its symbol, and the one who will draw more new people than anyone else can. The cornerstone of our story. The rebellious hero who creates a _legend _for us, by standing up to the Ministry and showing people that it can be done."

Harry shook his head, not sure whether he was more surprised by what Malfoy was saying or by hearing him call the rebellion his own. "I was only needed to do that at first. Now people are coming in because they can see that what we have, works. I'm not really the leader anymore. Ron is. I'm the engine."

"The engine," Malfoy repeated, looking so blank that Harry blinked. Then he remembered that Malfoy hadn't been reared around Muggles, and probably wouldn't understand the metaphor exactly the way Harry meant it.

"Yes," Harry said. "The driver. The thing that keeps the revolution spinning with new ideas. But someone else can take that over if it kills me. I think even you could, but George, certainly." Malfoy's eyes were wide and locked on Harry, and he didn't look inclined to say anything right now, so Harry continued. "If I have certain ideas right, ones that I need to find more information on, then I can do something for the rebellion that no one else can, but I know that something else might kill me before then. I just don't want it killing anyone who didn't choose to take the risk."

Malfoy bent forwards, his head in his hands. Then he said, "You're actively suicidal, then. You have a death wish."

Harry sighed. Hermione had said the same thing the last time she wrote to him, but he didn't understand why. It made _sense _to him that he should run the most risks, because he was the one best-equipped to resist them. He had stronger magic than anyone else. True, he didn't think that even his magic would have resisted the assault of the hounds like Malfoy's spell could, but he had a better shot than most other people. And he wasn't afraid. He didn't want to preserve his life so badly that he would flinch from what had to be done.

"No," he said. "It's just that preventing the Ministry from condemning innocent people to death is important."

"And your survival isn't?" Malfoy stared at him from beneath his fringe.

"Not as important as some other things." Harry leaned forwards with a gentle hand on Malfoy's arm, wondering why the man who had saved his life tonight needed reassurance at the moment. "Letting our people survive, for one thing. They willingly came to follow me. _You _willingly came to follow me. I want to show that I care about them, about you, that I take the responsibility for their lives on my shoulders. Not asking them to face danger if I can face it is part of that."

Malfoy sat still for some moments, his head still bowed, one of his hands keeping his wand pointed somewhere in the vicinity of Harry's sternum. Harry waited. He had the feeling that Malfoy was going to say something, and it would be important. At the moment, an acknowledgment that he had understood would be enough for Harry.

So few people did.

* * *

Harry Potter was worse than mad, worse than the Gryffindor hero that Draco had been picturing him as when he thought about the way Potter acted in the last few weeks.

Harry Potter was an idiot.

He honestly thought that he could keep people from danger by putting himself out in front of them as a huge target, as if the only danger would come from the old books that he was investigating, from the ancient ideas that he was stirring and bringing into new life. As a matter of fact, it was hard for Draco to think of how those ideas would endanger Potter, unless his control over Fortuna's Wheel slipped when he was turning it or Draco's father found out that he now knew the Strangler.

But that wasn't the point. The point was that Potter would be able to control the danger from that direction as long as he didn't mention what he was doing to anyone else, or if he waited until he had thoroughly tested the old magical ideas.

The Ministry was a different matter entirely, as their little stunt with the Shadow Hunt should have proven to Potter.

But no, instead he leaned towards Draco and tried to _explain _things in this breathy, _kind _voice, as though the only thing that mattered was how much Draco understood.

It made Draco sick, to know that the man he was depending on to free his parents had such a shallow conception of the world. The Dark Lord had been insane, yes, but at least he understood power dynamics and the need to maintain himself as supreme and destroy threats rather than just stand in the way like a human shield. For the first time, Draco thought he could understand why his father would have wanted to serve such a man. It was better than some of the alternatives.

"You can't keep us all from harm," Draco said at last, when he thought enough moments had passed to impress the truth on Potter. "It won't matter how much you struggle. Someone's still going to die."

Potter sighed, and the hold of his hand on Draco's arm tightened. "I know that. But at least I can try."

Draco sat back, exasperated enough to speak the next words before he fully considered them. "But you can't, because the trying will fail. And is that what you want to do for the rest of your life, try uselessly to protect people from threats that are going to stalk them anyway?"

Potter blinked as though he had never anticipated that objection, though with some of his friends, Draco was sure it would have come up eventually. "But it's not useless. I can defend plenty of people from the Ministry, plenty of people from the ideas that I might come up with, and—well, all the other things that you're thinking of," he finished a little lamely, as he finally seemed to have realized that Draco hadn't mentioned the threats he was thinking of by name. "I defended plenty of people from Voldemort during the war."

Draco controlled the flinch that still sometimes wanted to work its way through his body—being near Potter brought up more memories of the Dark Lord than even being in Malfoy Manor did—and shook his head. "That was a special ability, a one-time thing. I don't think you could do it again, could you?"

Potter cocked his head, and his eyes narrowed. "Maybe." His face started to get that glazed look Draco recognized by now. He was thinking of the ways that he could research the idea and then put it into operation.

Draco snapped his fingers in front of the unfocused green eyes. Potter blinked, then frowned at him with a resentful expression. Draco tried to ignore the second shiver that moved through him. He had always known what color Potter's eyes were, and he had seen them filled with resentment more often than any other emotion. There was no reason it should affect him like that.

"Listen," Draco said. "Right now, we need to think about ways to keep people safe, not duplicate one piece of good luck."

"But that's what I _was _thinking about," Potter replied, lifting his chin. "And I don't see what it matters if I run risks, as long as I decide of my own free will to run them, and bear their price myself."

Draco exhaled hard. He didn't think that some of the words he wanted to say would make much impact on Potter, so he sought for a different way to convince him. "What do you think your friends would say to this?"

Potter hesitated only a moment, but that was enough for Draco to notice. "They'd understand. Ron's the same way himself."

"You've said that he can lead," Draco murmured, leaning closer. That hesitation was the crack in Potter's armor, the chink Draco could lean on and open wider, so that Potter would think about ways to come up with ideas and further the rebellion rather than ways to die. "But how can he do that when he has to worry about you blowing up or otherwise self-destructing? Let him be the leader and the trainer. I have no quarrels with that." Well, of course he did, because he didn't see how Potter could possibly forego the honor that would have resulted, but then again, he had always known that he would use the gift of fame and power differently—much more rationally—than Potter ever had. "But you need to give him someone to lean on. Don't give him another concern to worry over."

Potter bowed his head and toyed with his fingers. Draco knew his words had struck home, but that there would probably be other complaints. He waited, keeping his hands in place, on Potter's shoulder and not far from his breastbone. Potter shuddered with his breath, his warmth pumping through his veins. Draco had to admit that Potter was more alive and vital than most other people he'd known.

_Especially my parents, at the moment._

The thought was a lucky one. It let Draco recoil and lift the barrier between them, higher than it had been before. He'd been stupid to let it fall that far.

"But this is the only role I can have," Potter whispered. "If I don't fulfill it, then I lose the respect of the revolution anyway."

Draco nearly smiled. So Potter was human in some ways, not a blind hero, and he did want other people's respect and attention.

_I could help him with that._

Draco reminded himself of his parents and responded calmly. "If you act more rationally and explain the theories behind your ideas, instead of simply testing them on yourself and then asserting that they work, I think you'll find a new level of respect and cooperation from your followers."

Potter opened his mouth, then shut it. "It feels like cheating, somehow," he murmured. "As if I'm backing out on my promise of running the risks."

_Time to squash that. _Draco leaned in. "Right now, everyone thinks you're mad," he said quietly. "Because you appear to have a death wish, because you control everything, because you would be perfectly willing to die and you don't seem to care about what that would do to the people you leave behind. Change the way you act, and it'll convince them otherwise. It won't make them think that you're _cheating._ What a stupid concept," he had to add, because he was still himself.

For a long, tense moment, their eyes held. Then Potter began to smile. Draco had to look away from the warmth behind it.

"Thank you," Potter said.

Draco narrowed his eyes at him. "For what?"

"For saving my life, of course," Potter said, but he'd let a silent beat pass, and his eyes were brighter than they had been.

Draco inclined his head. He didn't say _you're welcome, _because this ought to have been something Potter could figure out for himself. But he gave Potter that nod, and hoped that things might grow out of it.

_Like my parents' freedom. _

_ Remember what you're here for, Draco._


	16. Trying

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Sixteen-Trying_

"Mate, are you all right?"

That was what Ron said at breakfast the next morning, in the large cafeteria that they'd converted the manor's kitchen into. Harry opened his mouth to say that he was fine. Of course he was. Malfoy had saved him from the shadow hounds, and no other threat had come after him all night. And now that he knew the spell to counter the shadow hounds, he could use it if anyone ever tried it on him again.

Then he saw the way Ron was leaning forwards across the table, quivering like-well, like one of the hounds straining to get a chance at Harry. He saw the redness around his friend's eyes, the circles beneath them, the tight fist that the hand that didn't hold the table had clenched into.

_For once, _Malfoy's voice in his head murmured, _try acting as if you don't have a death wish._

Harry still disagreed that he had a death wish, for the record. He didn't see where Malfoy got off telling him that he did. He wanted to retort to that voice in his head, to give some quick and laughing answer to Ron, and then go back to his books. Ron would do to serve in his place. The rebellion needed him more than it needed Harry right now.

Those well-worn arguments burned away in the face of the intent stare Malfoy had given him, last thing, before he rose to go back to his bed. And in the face of the stare Ron was giving him now, because Harry hadn't responded at once that he was fine, the way he usually did.

Harry met Ron's gaze again, and then nodded slowly. Ron cocked his head, not privy to Harry's private debate and thus misunderstanding the gesture. "You are fine, then?" he asked.

"No," Harry said. "Not really. The Ministry used an artifact on me last night that made a pack of hounds chase me through my mind. Every time they caught me, I felt the pain and my heart stopped."

Ron choked, his face bright red. "Harry," he breathed, before rising to his feet and storming around the table.

Harry put up a calming hand, which only made Ron seize it and force it down onto the table, staring at him all the while. "If you're lying about this," Ron said, his voice shaking, "if you try to tell me that this isn't something I should worry about, when you've still got these hounds on your trail-"

"Not that," Harry said, smiling at him and realizing that he ought to have told Ron that at once, because otherwise of course he'd worry. Had he really become that bad at reading his best friend, at interaction with other people? It seemed so, and the tense, angry way that Ron smoothed his hands down Harry's arm made him feel guiltier.

But feeling guiltier just made him want to take risks and possibly die for people, and Malfoy had said that didn't work. Harry would go with his new tactic of telling the truth instead and see how that worked out.

"The hounds are gone," he said, squeezing Ron's elbow before punching him in the shoulder. "Do you really think that I'd sit here and talk that calmly if they were still with me?"

"Yes," Ron said.

Harry blinked at him.

"You've been _strange _lately," Ron said. "That's the best word for it, mate, the only one." His hands clamped down on Harry's arms now, his eyes darting back and forth as if more rapid movement would let him read the secrets contained in Harry's head better. "You've acted distant, and sometimes like you don't really care about m-I mean, the rebellion, or any of us."

Harry shook his head. He hadn't realized it'd got that bad. Truly, he'd never meant to let it. "Ron," he whispered.

"I'm not finished," Ron said. "If you really aren't in imminent danger of dying, then you'll let me finish."

Abashed, Harry nodded. Ron bowed his head and seemed to concentrate for a moment, as though he needed to bring the words out of a hole deep in the middle of his mind where he'd stored them.

"You've acted like you're the hero people wanted you to be in the war, or the criminal the Ministry wants to paint you as," Ron whispered. "Either one could have acted like you did-like you had more important things to think about than the little people who surrounded you, like nothing really _mattered _but the thoughts in your head. You took insane risks. You risked letting your wild magic loose when you hadn't told us that you could control it."

Harry opened his mouth to say that there had been no danger when he burned the Inferi, and then closed it again. That night, he had been too drunk on giddy joy to care about the danger, and he knew it. Besides, if he _had _believed it was completely safe, he still hadn't told Ron or his other friends about it. He lowered his head and shrugged an apology as well as he could.

Ron still went on with a harsh tone in his voice, but his hands squeezed Harry's arms once, gently, before he did. "Okay. And then there's the way you show up sometimes with these ideas, like Fortuna's Wheel, that you want other people to follow without a full explanation. It's-scary, all right? I don't know you anymore, and because I'm so much the leader, the others see my hesitation and don't trust you either. And I know that Hermione's worried about you cracking under this burden."

"If I started this war, I should be the one to finish it," Harry had to interrupt then, because Ron was making the same mistake that Malfoy had last night, assuming that Harry didn't realize the magnitude of his faults and his potential blame. "I should be the one to assume the risks and stand in the way of death."

"You started this war," Ron said.

Harry nodded cautiously. He couldn't read the exact tone in Ron's words, but it wasn't a question, so that had to be good.

"You are sometimes the stupidest person on the face of the planet," Ron said. "But only sometimes. The rest of the time it's me, for putting up with you as long as I have."

Harry spluttered. He would have pulled back, but Ron had already done that, pacing on the other side of the table and flinging his arms and his voice around in a way that Harry knew he would never have done if there were anyone else here. Being Ron's best friend meant Harry got to know all sorts of things about him that no one else did.

At the moment, Ron didn't look as if he appreciated returning the favor.

"You didn't _start _this war," Ron said, cutting around and pinning Harry in his chair with a scowl. "The Ministry was the one who decided to favor pure-bloods for no reason. The Wizengamot didn't have to take bribes. Pure-blood criminals didn't have to decide to take advantage of this and see what they could do. The Minister didn't have to dismiss your concerns."

"Well, yeah, but I was the one who started the actual fighting," Harry said. He wondered if something had fallen on Ron's head during the night and made him forget that.

"You didn't force anyone to join you," Ron countered. "Hell, you gave me the choice from the beginning, and what happened to Hermione was _her _idea." Harry had to smile. Even with no one apparently listening in, Ron would preserve Hermione's cover as a spy. Harry thought it was better than _he _could have done if he were as worked up as Ron was. "All the others came on their own. Even Malfoy," Ron added grudgingly. "This is our war, too. In fact, it's pretty insulting when you call it yours, mate, I'm not going to lie."

Harry shrugged a little with his left shoulder. He was caught between wonder that Malfoy had been right and concern for Ron. "Well-sorry. But I reckon there's not much difference at this point. Would it really help that much if I stopped thinking that way?"

"Yes."

Another answer that threw Harry. He blinked at Ron and said nothing for a few seconds, which gave Ron a chance to plunge ahead and declaim to the ceiling.

"It would help if you started acting like _yourself, _instead of this high-and-mighty hero that you think we want or the distant visionary that you _have _been acting like. It would help if you acted like you had a head for strategy, instead of assuming everything will work itself out because of your special luck. It would help if you got to know more of the people coming to us now, instead of leaving everything to me."

"That's what I wanted to do so they would trust you," Harry pointed out. "Follow you. If something happens to me, the rebellion won't die."

"Just after you finished saying that this was _your _war, that's less than convincing." Ron stopped pacing and directed the scowl at him from a closer distance this time. "What makes you think that substituting you for me is any better? Then, if I die, the revolution is still decapitated."

Harry ran a hand through his hair.

"Harry?" Ron had moved towards the table. "I'd like an answer."

"There's not much of one," Harry muttered, resisting the temptation to put his head on the table and bang it there a few times. "I wasn't thinking. Or I thought that you could defend yourself better and I was more likely to die."

"Because of these books that you've been investigating." Ron's eyes could have pierced steel.

"The ideas, more precisely," Harry said. "But yes."

"Death wish," Ron sang to the ceiling or the walls or whatever his audience was supposed to be this time. "Stupid _bloody _death wish." He took a step up to Harry and clamped his hand down again. Harry sat there, feeling the squeeze, the strength in Ron's hand, and how easily it could become worse than it was right now.

"Survive," Ron said. "Act like you want to survive, at least. Fight with us. Lead when you can. Fight _beside _me. All of those would go a long way towards convincing us that you're not wasting your time with these books."

"They taught me how to control Fortuna's Wheel and the wild magic that burned the Inferi," Harry said, a little stung. "I don't think that's a waste."

Ron shook his head. "But things that only benefit _you_ don't help much. That's why some of our fighters are thinking that you are the high-and-mighty hero, wrapped up in your own plans, thinking that you'll carry the fight with your own magic. You can't carry it alone, Harry. Show them you know that, and things will improve."

Harry opened his mouth to say that no one really thought that, and then stopped as it occurred to him that he didn't know _what _people were saying about him, because he almost never came out of his rooms or out of his books. He shut his jaw and rubbed it. He had read some history of Muggle revolutions, trying to find out and avoid their mistakes; he had neglected the much more basic precaution of mixing with his fighters every once in a while.

Malfoy had been right, though perhaps not in the ways he anticipated.

"All right," he murmured.

Ron looked as if he were getting ready for another speech, but he blinked at Harry and said, slowly, "You admit that you've been doing something wrong?"

"Yeah." Harry twisted to his feet. If things had gone as badly wrong as he thought they had, or at least as they could have, while he was hiding, then he had to get out there and start correcting some mistakes right away. It would take a while, because they wouldn't believe that he had changed at first, and it would also take an effort for him to tear himself away from his books. He had been so sure that he could solve the revolution's problems that way, that it was a better solution than charging ahead the way he had when he burned Minister Duplais.

But his wild magic was still fire, even if he had its burning under control now, and he had still begun this with an uncontrolled, wild act of aggression. Toned down a bit, his temper could be the best help for the rebellion.

He started towards the door from the cafeteria, and Ron grabbed his arm and held him still. Harry looked at his arm patiently, then at Ron's face when Ron acted like he still didn't get it. "You have to let me go if I'm going to speak with the others," he said.

"I told you that you've been doing something wrong," Ron said. "You admitted it. Where are you going? I'll need you to admit that at least seven times before I start absorbing it."

Harry laughed in spite of himself, both at Ron's words and at the bewildered expression on his face, which didn't match up with them. "What do I always do when I do something wrong?"

Ron cocked his head. "Something worse?"

Harry rolled his eyes and punched his best friend in the shoulder. "Wanker. No, really. I'm going to go and do something to make up for it." He tugged away from Ron's suddenly slack grip and started trotting again.

"Most of our fighters aren't up yet," Ron warned him, catching him as Harry turned towards his bedroom. "And they might be happy to hear that you've changed your mind about being stupid, but they won't want to be woken up at seven in the morning just to hear that."

Harry laughed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been genuinely amused over something other than someone's reaction to his spells. "Yeah, I know. I have something else to tell them, too."

"What?" Ron looked as if he didn't know whether he should be cheering or backing away.

Harry closed one eye in a slow wink at him. "Why should you get to be better and closer to me than all the rest of them? You'll hear about it when they do."

He walked into his room and picked up the map that he'd drawn weeks ago while Ron fumed in the corridor outside. He had expected to feel weighed down by the confirmation that Malfoy had been right, but instead, his steps seemed to float, and he was humming under his breath.

Harry paused, holding the map, when he realized that he hadn't told Ron that Malfoy had been the one responsible for casting the spell that drove the hounds back.

Then he shrugged. He didn't know if Malfoy would want him to reveal that. Harry would leave it up to Malfoy, to see what he did and said, and take his cue from the git's behavior.

It had been a long time since he'd done that, too.

* * *

Draco woke with a hard clench of his fist at his side. He'd been squeezing the bedcovers, it seemed, and they had finally fallen away from between his fingers and left his nails to dig into his skin. He sat up, touching his head on both sides. It didn't hurt, but it felt as if it should. He hadn't slept well, and before that, he had performed a powerful spell for someone he hated.

At least it hadn't been a spell that should be kept sealed and private to the Malfoy family, this time.

Not that that might make much difference to his father. Draco knew Lucius would have no love for the Ministry that had locked him away, but he sometimes wondered whether that lack of love might extend to the man who had brought down the Dark Lord and made his imprisonment necessary in the first place. Would he forgive Draco for working with Potter?

_That can only matter when he's free, _Draco reminded himself, and used his tongue to clean off a piece of annoying fluff from his teeth. He would go for breakfast soon, but he wanted a few more minutes to recover first. If someone saw him looking like this, they would either grow suspicious or mistake his confusion for weakness, and Draco would like to avoid either result.

When someone rapped resolutely on his door, he turned with a start, and then made himself relax and sit with his hand flattened out on his knee. "Who is it?" he called.

"Potter."

And yes, that did sound like Potter's voice. But Draco wondered at the tone behind it, the bubbles of light like the kind found in champagne, the laughter that tinged his words.

Perhaps he'd told someone else what Draco had done for him and they'd made him see it for the joke of fate it was, or perhaps he'd laughed himself sick over the things Draco had told him at the same time. Either way, he wasn't someone Draco could hide from. Resigned, he stood and walked over to the door, trying to clean more pieces of fuzz off his teeth as he opened it. He wasn't worried about cleaning the expression from his face. That would happen automatically the moment he met Potter's eyes.

Potter reached out and caught his hand, which lingered on the edge of the door. His eyes were so bright that Draco felt his gut tighten. He wouldn't have been able to do that himself if he'd tried.

"Thank you," Potter said. "What you told me is already paying off."

"The hounds came back?" Draco asked cautiously. Why else would Potter have been smiling like that, unless they had returned and he'd been able to fend them off with the spell Draco had shown him?

"No," Potter said, and then tossed back his head and laughed a little, the sound seeming to bubble up from within his throat and out into the air like water from a leaking fountain. "No, something totally different. What you told me about not having a death wish and letting other people close to me once in a while."

Had he said that? Draco was certain he'd phrased it differently. "Good," he said. "Now let me return to my sleep."

"You weren't asleep, or my magic would have told me," Potter said with utter certainty, and went on before Draco could ask what he meant. "Besides, everyone is getting up just now-everyone except the people who were up all night training, I mean. I have an announcement to make, and I don't want anyone to miss it."

Draco shook his head. "Most of your people still don't trust me or consider me part of the revolution. I don't _have _to be there."

Potter bent his gaze straight on Draco. Draco choked as if he had an old wound in his throat. And in a way, this _was _an old wound, or at least tearing at the scab on one. He had once wished for Potter to look at him like this, his eyes full of light.

"You were the one who let me see that they didn't really consider _me _part of the revolution, either," Potter whispered. "That I was in danger of losing them. That my real responsibility was to live for them, not die for them."

"I never said that," Draco began, on firmer ground here. He remembered enough of his little speech to Potter the night before to be certain.

"This is your doing as much as anyone else's," Potter said, his face soft. "You're important to the revolution, and this is something you'll want to hear. Please?"

_Who's said "please" to me since my parents went to Azkaban?_

Draco shook his head, but it was in response to his thought, not Potter's words. Potter seemed to know that, because he tightened his grip on Draco's hand, playing the knuckles as if they were a piano's keys. Draco started. He had actually forgotten Potter held his hand. That was something-unexpected.

"Please," Potter said again. "I know that you could hear about it later, but I want to see your face when I say it."

Draco relaxed a bit. That sounded as if Potter was going to play a prank on him, and while Draco wouldn't enjoy that, it at least fit within the normal boundaries of their relationship as it was set out in Hogwarts. "I promise not to laugh or look around like an idiot," he said. "Or call you an idiot in front of everyone else. Is that enough promises to let me skip this?"

Potter moved closer to him. Draco hated the way their robes brushed, the way Potter kept control of his hand, the way he bent his head and let Draco smell the cheap shampoo he'd used that morning. But not enough to move away or break his grip, apparently.

"No," Potter said. "Please?"

"You can tell me what it is right here, without an audience," Draco said weakly. He looked away from Potter's face, because seeing it at the moment would make him do something stupid.

"You deserve to have the acknowledgment in front of everyone," Potter said. "Unless you'd prefer that they don't know about you saving me from the hounds? I haven't told anyone else that yet, because I didn't know how or when or what you wanted them to hear about it."

Draco closed his eyes. It wasn't even Potter's ridiculous morals that made him have to do it. It was because he hadn't been offered a _choice _like that in years, and hadn't expected one now. Of course Potter would go ahead and make the decisions for both of them, because that was what he did.

"All right," he said, because it was stupid and he wanted out of this moment more than he wanted to be away from the eyes of the audience Potter would give him. "You can tell them about the spell. I-don't want to be there, though."

Potter leaned further forwards, until Draco could feel his bloody _breath _on his own knuckles and Draco's cheeks and eyebrows. "Please," he said. "They'll be looking for you. I owe everything to you, right now. Including what we're going to do next."

"The announcement?" Draco murmured, not opening his eyes.

"Yes," Potter said. "If you come with me and let me honor you in public as you should be honored, then I'll tell you what we're going to do before we get there."

Draco flicked his eyes open. "Very well," he said. "I accept." Perhaps it would be something he could put in his next report to the Ministry.

Potter smiled at him from far too close, his eyes afire and his cheeks flushed. His breathing was rapid. He moved his hold from Draco's hand to his sleeve, toying with the cloth, flicking it, until Draco wanted to grit his teeth and scream at him to get _on _with it already.

"We're going after Azkaban," Potter said. "We're going to free all the prisoners there, including your parents, and offer them shelter."

The world turned inside out, and Draco would have fallen if not for the support of Potter and the doorway. He closed his eyes and shook his head. He couldn't speak.

Once again, Potter seemed to understand. He stood there, holding Draco, for a moment, and then he turned and towed him fiercely down the corridor, leaving Draco to stumble and hurry trying to keep up.

A perfect microcosm of the way his life was working out lately.


	17. Before the Crowd

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Seventeen—Before the Crowd_

Harry watched the crowd file into the converted amphitheater. He watched their eyes and their faces, as he hadn't done much of in the last little while. Before, when he explained his ideas, like Fortuna's Wheel, he had only wanted to get across the words that piled up behind his lips before he forgot something or his brain jumped to another idea. It had been like being drunk, he thought. Not very different from the fire flowing through him the night he burned the Inferi.

But he couldn't do that anymore. It made people think he was mental, and they were less likely to listen to him then. Harry might be used to the mad ideas that saved the world—most people wouldn't have thought that his standing in front of the Killing Curse without defending himself would work—but they weren't.

They were his fighters. They were the backbone of the revolution. They were the ones who had believed in the same ideals that he did, or else trusted him enough, to follow him away from the Ministry and into this war.

It might not be _his _war, but it could still be deadly.

Harry had to treat them better than he'd been doing.

Catchers didn't walk past with the others, but stepped up to him and stared at him levelly from a short distance away. Harry raised his eyebrows and waited. Catchers would only do that if he had something important to say.

"You cursed me during your escape from the Ministry," Catchers said. "And I still came to you."

"I know." Harry looked back at him, unabashed. It had still been Catchers' _choice _to come to him, and Harry had put aside the guilt that he'd felt at first about hitting Catchers with that spell.

"I put everything on the line," Catchers said. "My pride, my honor, my family. The Ministry might have left them alone so far, but there's no law that says that'll be the case forever. And I've convinced a few people to join up through persuading them, too. If something happens to them, I'll feel responsible."

Harry nodded. He was intimately familiar with all those feelings, although he didn't have a blood family for the Ministry to attack. But they could go after the Weasleys, and only the messages that Ron and George passed to Hermione, who gave them to the rest of the family, had reassured them that Harry really did have a plan so far.

"Show me that it's worth it," Catchers said, with a slight nod, as though Harry had already given him what he wanted, and then faded back into the crowd. Other members of his training group crowded around him, giving Harry bright, suspicious looks. Harry winced. He hadn't realized how bad that had got.

But he could and would make up for it. It was the least he could do, when he had caused the situation in the first place. He moved forwards, light on his feet, and took his place in front of the crowd.

Draco was behind him. He looked as though he would rather have hidden, and Harry gave him a considering look, wondering if Draco had _really _given him permission to tell other people that he had saved Harry. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Harry had coerced it out of him.

Draco saw him looking. In an instant, the shutter that he kept closed almost all the time went across his face, and he straightened his shoulders and met Harry eye to eye, as though he assumed he would be slaughtered if he didn't.

"That's very important to you," Harry murmured, without thinking.

"What is?" Draco gave him the same kind of abrupt look that Harry had seen from Catchers, or rather the other side of the abrupt look. This one said that he didn't want Harry to make his "desertion" up to him and would rather that Harry not try.

"Not to show emotion of any kind," Harry said. "Not to show a handle that someone could catch hold of." He reached out and put a hand on Draco's shoulder. "You don't need to worry. I won't do it."

Draco drew into himself as if into a shell, and shook his head. "Even if you could guarantee such a thing, Potter," he said flatly, "you couldn't keep your little pets from doing it. And Weasley will do anything he can to stop me if he thinks that we're getting close."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Ron's not that dense. He'll understand once I explain the situation."

"His hatred of me isn't rational," Draco said. "It's traditional. You think that you can stand in front of us and demand that Weasleys and Malfoys cease a feud that's occupied us for generations, on your say-so?'

"If you both want to be close to me," Harry said, "yes."

Draco stared at him, wide-eyed, dry-eyed, unblinking. Harry looked back and felt a soft thrumming just under his ribs. It was Draco's heartbeat, he knew, his magic giving him a magical equivalent of it. It had done that a few minutes ago, when it had told him that Draco wasn't asleep behind his bedroom door as he'd pretended to be.

"You're dangerous," Draco said, breathless, as if he honestly hadn't expected that.

Harry grinned savagely at him. "You shouldn't sound so surprised. You saw me destroy the Inferi." And he turned away and walked across the platform to hold up his hands for quiet.

* * *

No, Draco hadn't expected that.

He had known that Potter was still running the manic edge that he'd seen when the bastard destroyed the Inferi. But he had thought he understood that, and how it operated. Concern for individuals wasn't part of Potter's plan. He would work towards the greater good, which meant the revolution as a whole. Even though he would implement the raid on Azkaban, Draco fully expected to be responsible for his parents' safety. Who would help him? Weasley would remember what Draco's father had done to his little sister, if Potter didn't, and Draco would have to be clever and strong and quick simply to save his parents in the initial raid, never mind keeping other people away from them afterwards.

But Potter looked at him and demanded his allegiance, and knew things about him that he shouldn't know, and diagnosed him, and left him reeling.

And when Draco looked at him with his head on one side and his eyes squinted slightly, rendering his observation of Potter less than direct, he could see tiny flickers of flame opening around him, like eager mouths.

Potter was using magic, somehow, as he stood there. Draco didn't know how, because he had never seen anything like it. Of course, he had never seen anything like the flames that burned the Inferi, either, but that at least fit more into magic as he understood it; it was simply an extreme version of some common spells.

He knew of no spell that would stir up barely-there flame, or allow one's magic to give one information like a messenger.

_He could still have cast a spell to tell whether I was asleep or not, and be phrasing that in an odd way, _Draco told himself. He moved forwards to stand behind Potter, watching as the attention of everyone in the hall turned irresistibly to him. A few people who had been shifting and muttering to themselves, hostile, fell silent and rapt in an instant.

The fire around Potter arched up and out, to assume a position as a near-imaginary cape of flame hovering just beneath the roof.

Draco swallowed with a dry mouth. For a moment, he wondered if Potter _knew _he was doing that, and then remembered Potter's references to studying his wild magic through books and learning to control it. Yes, he did, although he might not be able to answer questions about the way it worked any more than anyone else could.

Wonder touched Draco, and something bright and silvery that snaked through him and hooked his attention as thoroughly as Potter's magic hooked that of everyone else. For the first time, he thought, _This man could get my parents out of Azkaban, and what is more, he will._

Then Potter began to speak, and the future surged up to meet them like a rising wave.

"I know I haven't been the leader that you deserve." Harry started out with the truth, because any attempt to cushion it would only make it look as though he was trying to spare himself. "I know that I've been hiding in my rooms and letting you take the risks. I thought I would stand between you and the fighting, but that's ridiculous. Many of you are far better fighters than I am right now, because you've trained more."

Cautious eyes watched him. Ron stood to one side and judged the mood of the crowd with frowns and short jerks of his head. Harry didn't know how everyone was feeling, because Ron could take their temperature better, but he knew Ron would warn him if things got dangerous. That was all he could ask for. He waited until the small muttering clots of people broke apart and attention returned to him.

"And the consequences of my decisions fell on me pretty quickly. The Ministry took my self-worship seriously and used an artifact that sent hounds after me. Shadow hounds," he added, because he could see people's mouths opening to ask if someone had tracked him to the manor and put the rest of them in danger. "Hounds that run through the mind, track you down, and make you feel as if you're dying. I died a few times. It wasn't pleasant."

Dry chuckles rose up, and Harry smiled. This was easier than he'd thought it would be. He had to admit wrongdoing, sure, but as Ron knew better than anyone else here, that was hardly unusual for him. What _was _unusual was that he had a means of atonement at hand, rather than having to flail about for a bit before he found something that would work.

"Draco Malfoy saved my life."

The crowd went right back into their communal silent stare. Draco flinched as though he expected Harry would pull him forwards by one arm and _make _him face those eyes. But Harry only stepped to one side and waited, allowing Draco the room to step up if he wanted.

After a few moments that felt as though Harry's heartbeat was ticking them away like a metronome, Draco did. He moved with his hands clenched low at his sides, his nostrils flared and his mouth working as though he expected to have to make excuses. But he did it, and even managed a more relaxed posture than Harry thought _he _could have if he was facing a crowd of Draco's friends and allies.

"He cast a spell that turned back the force of the artifact," Harry continued softly. "He explained what was happening to me so that I didn't panic and make the situation worse. And he _also _told me some hard home truths about the way I was behaving and the effect it was having on the revolution, on _you_, on all of you who are putting your lives at risk to fight the Ministry." He turned and smiled at Ron. "Then Auror Weasley here completed the transformation. He can be eloquent when he wants to be, and on the subject of my mistakes, he often is."

Ron looked as though he didn't know whether to be more surprised, pleased, or upset that he had to share Harry's praise with Malfoy. He stared at Harry and opened his mouth in a silent plea. Harry shrugged back and turned to the watching fighters again. Some of them were muttering to themselves now, and didn't stop when he talked. Well, that was fine. The ones who really wanted to could still hear.

"I know that I'm not as essential as I was," he told them. "That was what I'd planned from the beginning. I thought I'd fade out and leave someone else to lead. I had other things to concentrate on, and I thought it would be all the better if people didn't join the revolution just for the chance to follow the famous Harry Potter.

"But I know now that it doesn't work that way. I started this, or did something that started the fire burning, and that means I'm in it. And I've decided on the first thing I need to do, if what I want is to stop the Ministry from trying innocents and letting the guilty walk free. I'm going after Azkaban."

A sigh rippled through the room, followed by shouts. Catchers managed to get his voice to sound over everyone else's, at least to the platform where Harry stood. "What prisoners are you going to let go free? There are a lot of them there."

Here was the moment Harry would have dreaded if he had let himself dread anything about this. But because he was atoning, he could bury his fear in the greater purpose and move onwards.

"All of them," he said.

This time, the shouts were incoherent for the most part. With rage, Harry thought. Ron was staring at him with a dropped jaw. Draco was quiet beside him, his arms folded as if he was cold when Harry looked at him.

"You _can't!_" Catchers had made himself audible again. "There are people like Death Eaters who really deserve to be there."

"That's debatable," Harry said, and made himself not look at Draco. "Yes, they took the Dementors away from Azkaban after the war. Do you know what they decided to do instead? They leave the prisoners alone except at meals or if they're sick. They don't talk to them. Tell me that you could endure that without going mad."

"They deserve it," Catchers repeated.

Harry shook his head. "I don't think that I can say. Especially in the last few years, when so many of the people the Wizengamot sent to Azkaban were of the wrong blood rather than the people who did the wrong things. I want to get them free, bring them back here, and decide which category they fit into: people who need to be caged, people who need to be set free, and people who need to be helped because of the punishments inflicted on them there."

"We don't have enough space for that," said Wheelwright, the woman who had gone along with Harry, Catchers, and Ron to Hogwarts, her eyes wide. She seemed to be looking at a vision of the future and not liking what she saw.

"There are several wings in the mansion that I haven't put anyone in," Harry said coolly. "Except for their doors—which have wards and locks on them—I haven't modified them on purpose. They'll hold the prisoners."

"Why can't we decide when we get there who we should take?" Ron asked from the side.

Harry gave him a hard smile and turned to George, who had arrived at the beginning of the meeting but lounged against the wall. "Because the method we'll be using to free them doesn't admit of that much discrimination," he said. "George?"

* * *

_Knew he would call on us when he needed moral support, _Fred said with a chuckle in the back of his mind.

_What do you mean, "moral?" _George responded, and strode down the aisle. The wheel was safely in his hands, and he could feel eyes focusing on it, including Malfoy's. Well, they could look if they liked. No one could use the wheel but Harry.

Harry smiled at him as he sprang up on the stage. George smiled back and touched the small device in his pocket, the one that should keep Harry sane, wondering if he should present it in front of everyone. Better not, he decided. These people had enough doubts about Harry's sanity as it was.

"You're right," he told Harry, concentrating on him for a moment as if they were the only two people in the room, because that would make everyone else lean nearer and wonder what they were talking about. "The method we use will call powerful allies, but those allies—and their magic—aren't going to leave the prison standing." He produced the wheel and cradled it so that the crowd would see a flash of light from the metals and jewels that made it up and nothing else. "We have to move the prisoners out before Azkaban can fall."

"That's what _you _say," said the young man who'd been speaking before. George thought his name was Catchers; Fred found him annoying. "But how do we know that's the truth? Why can't you simply tell us how you're going to make the raid, and let us decide for ourselves whether it's too dangerous to leave the prisoners inside?"

George turned around and prepared his best withering look. Of course, it had twice the force that anyone else's would have, since Fred was doing the same thing behind his eyes. The man blinked and took a step away, uncertain.

"Because then someone who knew about the method could run straight to the Ministry," George said. He didn't say _you idiot, _but he'd always been good at implying it. The man flushed and turned to glare at Harry.

"You're giving spies for the Ministry the information they need, anyway, just by telling them that there's going to be a raid," he said.

"No." Harry had his arms folded now, his body language less open than it had been when he'd been practically laying himself out as a sacrifice for the crowd to devour. George approved. Harry had made mistakes, but his extreme form of atonement didn't necessarily make them better. These people wanted to follow a strong leader, not one who wallowed in guilt. "Because with this magic that we're going to use, it doesn't matter if they know we're coming. They won't be able to resist as long as they don't know _how _we're coming."

Uneasy glances flickered around the room like fire. Fred pointed out that, considering the weapon's use, this was a pun. George snickered.

Harry held out his palm, down flat, and George willingly handed over the wheel. It was made for Harry, and some of its magic sparked to life only when he was holding it. Harry seemed to feel the same way, from the heavy sigh he uttered a moment later and the greedy way he stared at it.

"Does anyone else have objections?" Harry asked. "Does anyone else think that we shouldn't conduct this raid on Azkaban, or that we shouldn't free all the prisoners?"

There were lots of objections, of course. But luckily, they weren't George's job to handle. He just leaned back and listened to Harry handle them, now and then making a comment when he thought something was sufficiently amusing to warrant it. Harry heard him and had to bite down on his lip more than once. Malfoy heard him and stared. George returned the stare mildly, not sticking out his tongue the way Fred wanted him to, and Malfoy jerked his head away as though someone had caught him trampling on the edge of a wound, his face heating up.

George grinned. He _did _enjoy playing with people, especially the ones who were so arrogant that they tended to think they couldn't be played with.

* * *

"Hermione."

It was a new thing for the Minister to call her by her first name. Hermione made an effort to sit up and intelligently focus her eyes on Minister Clearwater's face. "Yes, madam?" she responded, and Clearwater's face relaxed a little, as though she had expected insolence.

"I suspect that you are as tired of these meetings as I am." Clearwater turned away from her and prowled over to the window that dominated the far wall of her office. Once she had accepted that Duplais was dead, Hermione thought, she had settled in and made changes. The window showed a wide plain with golden grass stirring in sunshine before it succumbed to a change to rain. Clearwater seemed to find the sight soothing, but her voice remained distant as she stared at it. "Of course, we must ensure that the public knows the truth about Potter, not the insane lies that so many people are spreading."

Hermione bit her lip so that she wouldn't unleash a curl of laughter, which could all too easily turn hysterical. "Yes, Minister."

Clearwater sighed and leaned an elbow on the window. Hermione wondered for a moment if enchanted glass that looked out on nothing real scratched like normal glass. It was something she'd never studied or thought to care about. But someone ought to, she thought, and so surely someone could tell her. "The meetings are the source of many rumors," Clearwater said. "Only truth should come out of them."

Hermione weighed the words in her mind. They didn't sound like a threat or a question, which meant she had a hard time thinking of a response. She went with the standby she had used once before. "Yes, Minister."

"I wish you to take charge of disseminating that truth, Hermione."

Bells clanged in Hermione's head and, she thought for a moment, outside it. She sat bolt upright and licked her lips. "Minister," she said, "most people would question that decision. They would say that since I am Harry's former best friend, I shouldn't be doing anything that might make him look more innocent in the eyes of the public. Are you _sure _that you want me to do this?"

Clearwater turned around. Her hand rested on her wand, but that was such a habitual gesture for her by now—she seemed to think Harry would crash through the walls any minute—Hermione didn't think it was worth noting. "Yes," she said. "I trust your loyalty to the Ministry. You could have fled by now and joined Mr. Potter the way your husband did, or you could have at least tried to pass information on to him. Just because you don't approve of his tactics doesn't mean that you would approve of ours. Instead, from what I can find, you _have _stayed loyal to us, and used every opportunity to benefit our cause."

The bells increased. Hermione didn't let herself shift or breathe for several long seconds. Then she shook her head.

"I am honored by your trust," she said. "But I can't do this."

For some reason, Clearwater smiled, a slight twist to her lips. "So your devotion to the rules and the Ministry does have its limits?"

"It would undermine what you're trying to do," Hermione said, possibilities twisting in her head. She felt on the edge of exhaustion even though she'd only risen from her bed an hour ago. She wanted to convince Clearwater her protests were genuine so that the Minister would brush off the danger and give her the position anyway, but she couldn't go too far in the protesting. "Which is make people trust the Ministry. You should give the position to someone beyond reproach."

Clearwater sighed. "You're absolutely right. Especially because some people will think that our information on the torture of prisoners is unreliable anyway, since much of it comes from Death Eaters. But no one beyond reproach exists. That means that we must create one."

She was good. Her wand twitched before Hermione could see it rising, and a deep, dreamy feeling settled into Hermione's mind. She could hear the words that Clearwater spoke, and they were at once important and nothing to do with her; she had to obey, but the consequences of her obedience wouldn't fall on her.

"_Imperio._"


	18. Ring the Changes

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_Chapter Eighteen—Ring the Changes_

Hermione felt her mind shudder and fracture. It was an odd sensation. One part of her still stood on her feet in front of the Minister, nodding and smiling, her hands locked at her waist as if she was holding air at Clearwater's insistence. The other part of her retreated to the very back of her thoughts, gathering in ideas as it went, hunkering down like someone—or something—prepared to resist a long siege.

_What? _was all she had time to think before her sense of the fracturing drowned in the insistent pressure of two voices. One was her own, speaking in a harsh whisper, as if that would make what had happened less drastic. The other was Minister Clearwater's, sweeping over her like a tide and drowning her instinctive protests.

_Remember that you thought someone might cast the Imperius Curse on you. This is the result of a spell you cast._

"I wish you to tell me at once whether you are still in touch with Harry Potter and the means which you use to reach him."

The first voice stopped speaking and simply pulled on the back of her mind with silent strength, forcing her to rearrange certain thoughts. She had to speak, she had to satisfy the curse's imperative to do as Clearwater said, but that didn't mean she had to speak the _truth_. Her voice had a certain flat dreaminess to it that Hermione didn't like, but at least what came out was less damaging than what she might have said. "I wanted to. Harry said he didn't trust me and I'd have to work for a long time to get his trust again. I suggested I stay here as a spy, but he didn't leave me any means of contacting him. Every owl sent to him is turned away."

Clearwater's mouth flattened. "And yet, someone passed the pictures of the Inferi to him. Who was it, if not you?"

The free part of Hermione's mind shrank a little more, as though the question was a threat. Hermione couldn't remember why that was at the moment. Her mind was a strange place to be, ricocheting back and forth between freedom and the demands of the spell. She answered with a quietude in her voice that she noticed seemed to please Clearwater, although she wasn't entirely sure why. "I don't know, madam. Possibly Auror Desang."

Clearwater snorted and leaned against the desk. "That is what someone wanted us to think. But there was no sign that she had been near the place."

"Harry said something about the place," Hermione offered innocently. "Oh, not to me, you understand, but Ron still writes to me sometimes; he just doesn't always do it in a way that leaves me some way to track him back."

"But you could track him back some of the time?" Clearwater came to attention like a statue, staring at her across the desk.

"I'm not entirely sure," Hermione admitted. It was a bad thing to admit, she thought, but didn't remember why. There was so much that she didn't remember, and she wondered if she would get into trouble, knowing some things and not others. "The spells on the letters are meant to confuse me. But you could look at them. They might not confuse you."

"Bloody Imperius Curse, it always does this," Clearwater muttered, for no reason that Hermione could see, and leaned back against the desk, frowning at nothing. Then she shook her head and seemed to reorient on part of the conversation Hermione had thought was past. "What did Potter say about this place? The caves where we kept the Inferi?"

"Nothing much," Hermione said, and hoped she sounded as vague as she felt. She didn't want to disappoint the Minister. "There was someone who would find out the truth and help him there. But the person might have to leave for her own good. She was a real spy. Not like me," she added mournfully.

Clearwater sucked in a sharp breath, and Hermione wondered if she had said something to really startle her. Maybe not. She had the hazy impression that the Minister would sometimes make sounds like that to fool people who were spying on her.

_Not like me._

_ Like me._

The thoughts collided in the middle of her head, the impulse to obey warring with something else, something that seemed buried in the center of her and welling up like thick water. Hermione twitched her head back and forth, trying to understand, far from certain that she did.

"Did he say that?" Clearwater whispered. "Would he happen to know why Auror Desang has disappeared the way she has?"

"I don't know that he told me," Hermione said. The words seemed to pop and flow and bubble naturally to her lips, like the reverse of drinking champagne, and it was becoming harder and harder for her to say if she had ever known or thought them before that moment. But then, she thought she remembered reading somewhere that language, at least a language you spoke well, interacted with thoughts at such a basic level that you didn't really plan the words before you said them. "But she could be the spy. I know that he said he trusted her more than me."

_Didn't he say that? _There was no memory to back the words up, but the words were floating in the air anyway, and they sounded calm and certain, and Clearwater was nodding as if she had no doubt of them.

"I see," she said, staring into the distance. "That would alter the complexion of things. We will change the focus of our search for Auror Desang." She turned back and regarded Hermione speculatively. "And we will not have to change the role that you are going to fit into."

"That's good," Hermione said. At least, she had the impression that it was good. Once again, she had no real idea what was going on beyond the immediate moment. But Clearwater sounded happy about it, and that meant, Hermione thought, that she could smile.

Clearwater ignored the smile. It probably wasn't the wrong thing to do. She leaned forwards. "Hermione, dear," she said, and Hermione had the strangest impulse to tell the woman not to address her by her first name, "you should know that, from this day forwards, you are in charge of sending our rumors about Harry Potter."

"Rumors?" Hermione asked. "Not the truth?"

"Of course, truth," Clearwater said. "It is all and absolutely the truth. But it must spread like rumors. Our enemies must hear it and be shocked." She bared her teeth; Hermione wondered what enemy she was baring them at. Hermione didn't think she was an enemy, though the small, guarded corner at the back of her mind might be. "Do you think you can do that, Hermione? If you cannot, then I will give you more detailed orders."

"You need to tell me what facts you want spread that way," Hermione said, and was relieved, with part of herself, to hear that her voice was calm and not fussy. She didn't know what she would have done if that had happened.

"Yes, of course I do," Clearwater said, and laughed, long and low. Hermione stood there, unworried by it. She thought that most of her, dazedly obedient, had expected something like that, and the guarded corner of her mind didn't care. It was busy thinking about other things, such as the spell she had cast that allowed part of her to be free of the Imperius Curse.

_What spell?_

Before she could think more about that, Clearwater stood up and handed her a folder full of parchment. "This is your first assignment. You are to sift through them, choose the rumors that will make Potter look the worst, and set about dispensing them. Your new office is to the left of my door."

Hermione looked up. "I thought that was your secretary's office, Minister."

"It was," said Clearwater, and smiled at her, as if she thought that Hermione would fall at her feet for the chance of a new office. "But she's been told to move elsewhere. Of course our new Director of Public Relations will need a bigger place than the one she's been accustomed to, and she can't remain in the Department she's been in! It would be cruel."

Hermione gave her a big smile back, and then turned and walked towards the office. Clearwater caught her and held her back long enough to hand her a key. Hermione balanced the key thoughtfully in her hand. Most of her mind was occupied in wondering how big the office was and how long it would take her to complete the task that Clearwater had set her.

The guarded corner of her mind was busy coming up with plans that would allow her to seem as if she were under the Imperius Curse completely, while really benefiting Harry and Ron and the rebellion with this new position that had been handed to her.

Hermione had lain awake for the past several nights wondering about Harry and if there could be any truth to the rumors that he had tortured people in Azkaban. But she had wondered about other things, too, and one of them was whether the Minister would hesitate to use Unforgivables if she suspected people of treachery.

She was glad now that she had decided the Minister would be that ruthless if she had to, and that she had risen from bed in the middle of the night, padded into the library, and found a book that talked about splitting one's mind to resist the Imperius Curse as well as lesser methods of control.

It remained to be seen whether she could keep the division going. It remained to be seen whether Clearwater would notice something was wrong with her spell and take measures that would strengthen it.

But for now, she had a start.

* * *

"I don't see why we need to be outside to watch you use this."

Catchers, complaining, as usual. Harry smiled and tilted back his head, letting the clean wind rush across him. He wondered with one corner of his mind where that wind had come from. Romania? The Hebrides? South America? How far did a wind travel before it got picked up by other winds or faltered and couldn't be called the original wind anymore?

It was the sort of question he could have asked Hermione if she was with them. But she wasn't, and he didn't think they had done too badly with her to pass them information rather than be part of their every move.

"Did you hear me, Potter?"

"Yes, I did," Harry murmured, and tipped his head back further. The breeze blew away from him, but it felt as though it had soothed some of the sweat that had sprung out on his forehead. It was a bright, clear night, the stars peering down from around a half-full moon. Harry nodded. They would never get a better chance to use the wheel, given the weather and the chance that the Ministry would learn of the raid soon from any spies they had in his ranks.

Ron would say that those spies included Draco, but Harry wasn't sure about that. He thought he could probably give Draco more than the Ministry could, and that Draco was wise enough to know it.

He couldn't help catching Draco's gaze as he held up the wheel and laid his finger on the jade eye in the center, the one that would issue the call. Draco's face was pale. He was the only one bundled up against the cold of what was really a mild night, his hands tucked into his robe pockets and a scarf swathing his throat.

Harry nodded. Whether he knew it or not, Draco was more prepared than most of them. Harry suspected the rest would have to cast Warming Charms.

He didn't know if he would or not. His fire hummed quietly beneath his skin, provided by his magic, ready to leap forth and defend him if it needed to, but content to remain where it was for the moment.

He pressed down on the eye and reached out with his will. As if everyone around him could feel the vibration of powerful magic pouring from the wheel, they turned to face him and stopped talking.

So the air between them was calm and still enough to hear George's laugh of delight.

Harry knew at once that the wheel had worked. For one thing, it began to turn in his hand with a steady _click-click _sound which Harry had done nothing to cause. Catchers actually leaped backwards when it did that, and Harry bit down firmly on his lip to keep a smile from appearing. He didn't want Catchers to think he was mocking him.

For another, the wind around them suddenly turned hot, and Harry heard a bellow that resounded both inside his head and out.

He looked instinctively, briefly, at George, who gave him a fierce grin in return and bobbed his head. "You always knew this would be difficult, Harry," he said. "You're going to have to hold them, and that's something no one's ever managed to do. But no one's ever managed to craft an artifact like this, either, and no one's ever been as determined to do it as you are."

"What are you on about?" Catchers began.

George reached out casually, and slapped him.

Harry gave George a stern look, but it was hard to be as upset as he needed to be, especially when both Draco and Ron were snickering quietly and then giving each other wary looks that said they hadn't expected the other to be amused by that. "You really should leave him alone," he said. "He'll see the truth in a few minutes, and I might not have minded explaining before the fact."

"I would have minded if you'd done it," George said, and for a moment four eyes instead of two seemed to look out of his face.

Harry shrugged. Ultimately, George was more important to the revolution than Catchers was, and Harry would put up with that kind of behavior from him. And so would most of the rebels, he thought, darting a quick look around and not seeing the mass outrage he'd expected. George was the scary one, the one who invented artifacts that could kill you and—seemingly, though they hadn't seen the wheel's results yet—summon help. He was the one to be wary of pissing off, rather than Catchers.

Catchers withdrew to nurse his wounded dignity in peace, and Harry kept his head tilted back, his gaze fastened on the heavens. There should be help coming soon, if he…

Yes. There it was.

Something huge wheeled across the moon, and the hot breeze that was blowing down to Harry stank abruptly of _fire, _sulfur and brimstone and warmer smells. He moved forwards with one hand up, so that they would focus on him first instead of all the other vulnerable people crowded into the meadow before the Manor. He would have preferred to be alone, or perhaps with just George and Ron and Draco, when their allies came, but then no one else would have believed that he'd actually summoned them, and Harry had tested their patience enough.

The dragon screamed above him, and the night exploded with fire. Harry felt the beast's will bucking against his, sheer wildness testing the strength of the bonds that the wheel and Harry together had laid on it.

Harry closed his eyes, and his own fire burst free of his skin and rose in answer.

The world was full of burning. The flames danced around him, caressed his hair and his cheeks, bowed their heads now and then to nestle and nuzzle alongside him. Harry smiled. Fire was with him. Fire was the form his wild magic took, for reasons best known to itself.

Fire could not hurt him.

The lance of the dragon's breath struck him, and Harry only laughed. He felt it as a mild, tickling heat outside the protective cocoon of his own flames. He walked out of it and smiled at the Hebridean Black who was coming down, wings fanning the fire and sending it racing out in a growing circle.

The dragon stared at him, and its will danced opposite his again, like a second fire burning from the inside. Harry held out one hand and concentrated. The fire shot upwards from his palm, and joined with it were strands of bright blue and gold, the endless, reaching colors that Harry thought he could see in the sky on a bright day even with his eyes closed.

This was the image of the dragon's soul and will, Harry thought, the wildness that George had warned him about. No one had ever been able to domesticate dragons, although many people had tried.

And Harry wasn't about to try. He didn't know that George had really understood him, although he had made the wheel to Harry's specifications. He wasn't going to show the dragon tameness; he was going to show it the wildness of his own soul, and see if it responded in such a way that would allow him to ride it.

The Hebridean was still circling. The scales from below, lit by the fire that was only barely burning because it had been aimed at Harry and hadn't caught much grass, gleamed purple rather than black. Harry smiled up at it and moved his hands in a complex pattern that he didn't know and hadn't practiced. It came to him the same way that flames often formed pictures, not empty of content but mostly guided by the imagination of the person watching them.

The image of his own soul unfolded beside the dragon's, red streaked with bright coruscating green like the Northern Lights. Harry saw purple in there, too, and he turned the image over in his hands, trying to show that to the dragon. It might be calmer with a color that was so near its own.

The dragon slowed, hanging over him. Harry hadn't known they could hover like that. It was impressive. He stood there, looking up at it, his feet rooted in the center of the calmness, bound to the earth by his magic, while on either side of him leaves and sticks and clods of dirt and stones flew, torn free by the dragon's mighty wings. He didn't know how close he came to meeting the dragon's eyes, but he had met its soul and its fire, which was more impressive.

And more important, at least for the dragon.

Harry didn't understand the communion he underwent then. He didn't think he could put it into words. He didn't need to. The important thing was that the dragon jerked its head to the side, nostrils flaring, and then dropped to the ground with a crack that seemed to compact stone beneath it. Its body filled the field despite the field, Harry knew rationally, being many times bigger than the dragon. He smiled at it and glanced around to make sure that the wards around the manor, which both protected it from the dragon's attention and would keep it safe from fire, were still operating.

"Potter!"

That was Draco crying out from the side. Harry looked back at the dragon just as the Hebridean lowered its head and opened its jaws, neck slewing sideways, towards him.

Harry could see the teeth, the way the fangs, too, shone in the firelight, the dragon's muscles tensing along its sides as if it would fling itself down and crush him instead of biting him. Harry didn't move, and didn't flinch. He held up his hands instead, with the image of his soul still strung between them, and showed it to the dragon. Then he called to his magic, and it pulled up the dragon's soul, that shining, lovely violence, and arrayed them side by side.

The dragon stopped moving. The chin rested on the ground less than three inches from Harry. He could look up and see fangs above his head that were longer than his neck; he could glance down and see fangs by his feet longer than his legs. He could look ahead and down the tunnel of the dragon's throat, the glinting shadows and the small red place at the dark where the fire would come from. Its breath stank of swamps and bones and rotting flesh.

Harry held still. He didn't see that he had anything to gain by running at this point. He was so close that the dragon could catch him by simply snapping its jaws, and probably cut him in half. And running might trigger the dragon's instincts and make it think that he was willing to play prey for it, which he wasn't.

Long moments throbbed and ticked past, in his pulse. Harry wished he could see the dragon's eyes, although he knew that wouldn't have helped. It was the fire that reflected its inner being and would guide any attempt at communication, not the eyes.

Then the dragon pulled its head back, jaws clapping to, and extended a wing towards him. Harry could see its eyes now, and they glinted with the same small, red, mad points as the back of the throat. Harry nodded to it and then touched the jade eye in the center of the wheel again. George had come up with a way to make more direct communication work, although it would have been impossible if Harry hadn't been a Parselmouth.

"_I want you to carry us," _Harry told the jade eye, and it glowed as it translated the language of snakes into the collection of impulses, sounds, smells, and gestures that a dragon would understand. "_To bear us to a place and burn it."_

The dragon extended the wing again, but this time, it wasn't to touch an imaginary wing of his own. It was an invitation to mount.

Harry took a shaky step back, a deep breath, and then lifted his eyes to the sky as another dragon approached, ready to begin the struggle again.

* * *

Draco had his hands clasped in front of him, he had had for some time, and by the time he noticed them, he wasn't sure that he could separate his fingers.

His body was vibrating with tension, and he wanted to vomit. He wanted to flee. He wanted to stand there and never move, because the spectacle of Potter taming dragons was incredible. He wanted to touch Potter, half-convinced as he was that the man would fall to ash in a few minutes because the dragon had _burned _him.

Potter could walk out of dragonfire.

He could show the dragon a pattern of fire between his hands and it would seem to understand.

He could stand in front of a dragon's jaws and not show fear.

Draco knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he would have thought differently about these events if he had merely been told about them instead of experienced them. There was—something _wrong _in the way Potter stood up to the dragon. Something mental, and perhaps far more dangerous to the revolution than even a few angry dragons getting out of control. They might be able to retreat behind the strengthened wards around the manor if that happened.

(Strengthened against _fire. _Draco had noticed that earlier. He should have made the connection when Potter talked about indiscriminate allies).

But instead, he had seen it, and behind his incredulity and his fear was a kind of intense, greedy wonder. To see Potter stand his ground, look into the face of death, and then make it bow down and serve him was…

Draco didn't have words for what it was.

But he knew he needed to be close to it, and when Potter had settled two dragons and then turned around and asked for volunteers to ride them to the raid, Draco was the first to step forwards.


	19. In Flight

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_Chapter Nineteen—In Flight_

"Are you sure that you know what you're doing, mate?"

Harry looked back and grinned at Ron. They were on the Hebridean Black that he had summoned first, and the dragon was stirring restlessly, turning his head to the left and then the right. He hadn't liked it at all when they decided to wind leather straps around his back and belly so that the riders would have something to hang onto, or bind cushions to the straps and then cast spells on them that would Transfigure them into more comfortable, wider seats. On the other hand, Harry had talked constantly to him through the jade wheel, and he didn't think that the dragon would lunge up and take off any time soon. Which was good, since there were still people climbing up to take a seat on his back, or bundling up in warm clothes, or wavering between coming along on the raid or not.

Draco was in the seat behind Ron. Harry had been sure that he would be.

"No," Harry said, in response to Ron's question. He rolled his eyes when Ron frowned at him. "How can I be? How can anyone be absolutely sure of anything that they're doing right at the moment? So I don't really have any choice but to answer you that way."

Ron snorted and looked away. "I meant, do you think the raid on Azkaban is going to work?"

"Well, that's a different question," Harry said. "And yes, I do think so. The hardest part will be convincing the dragons to wait until we have all the prisoners out. But we can give them something to tide them over."

"What's that?" Ron looked as if he thought that Harry would suggest human sacrifice. Harry sighed. He'd feel a lot worse about that if he didn't have to keep his emotions in balance and in check so that the dragons wouldn't get upset.

"They're going to be breathing out to disguise us as much as possible," Harry said, and then laughed openly at the expression on Ron's face. "I mean, okay, it's not _easy _to hide a pair of bloody great dragons when they're flying in, especially because it's dark and their breath will give them away. But I promise, it's going to work." He caught Ron's hand and squeezed it, hard. "Trust me?"

"I always do, mate," Ron said softly. "But you have to know that I'm the only one who does, from the looks that most of them are giving you. And that's a problem."

"You're wrong, Weasley."

The voice was so unexpected that Harry blinked for a long moment, wondering who had said it. And then he saw Draco leaning forwards around Ron to give them both a very definite stare, and wondered how he could have mistaken that tone for anyone else's.

"I trust him," Draco said. "Your brother trusts him. Most of the people in the revolution trust him enough to climb up on these beasts, who they _know _aren't tame, and follow him across the water to Azkaban. No, they don't follow him blindly, and they don't make protestations of loyalty in the way that would probably render you most comfortable, and they don't bow down and worship him. But they're _here. _That's enough to count for something."

Ron stared at Draco as if a dog had suddenly started talking. Harry gave him a small, grateful smile. He hadn't thought that Draco would speak up like that for him, even if they _were _on their way to rescue his parents.

Draco flushed abruptly, as though he hadn't thought of the past between them until now, and then leaned away and folded his arms. Harry whispered his name, but he didn't look around. He probably wouldn't until after the raid.

"You need to do something to get back their trust other than tame dragons," Ron said, and held up a hand when Harry opened his mouth to protest. "I _know _they're not tame. I'm just using the word as a convenient shorthand. And I mean it, Harry. You'll have to find something else. What in the world is it going to be?"

"I don't know yet," Harry said, and felt the second dragon, who was lying down while similar straps were fastened across her, stir against his will. He turned, hands ringing with fire as he held them out to her. She sighed and rubbed her horns against the ground, but stayed still as the fastening went on. Harry could see the revolutionaries testing the buckles on the straps warily. Well, they would want to, wouldn't they, when a single strap swinging loose could mean they'd drop over the dragon's back straight into oblivion? "But I'll find something."

"I'd feel better if you knew what it was now." Ron lowered his voice as he leaned forwards, as if he imagined that that would somehow exclude Draco from the conversation, or keep from attracting attention.

"Yeah, me too," Harry said.

"_Harry_."

Harry smiled and ignored him, showing fire to the dragons when necessary, watching the wary glances that the humans darted him, and hissing Parseltongue commands that the wheel translated. None of them were looking at the wheel anymore, he noticed, except George, who had pride and satisfaction in his eyes, and Ron, who looked uneasy, and Draco, who couldn't keep the curiosity from his face.

Well, that was because they were the smartest of those who had chosen to follow him tonight. The others seemed to think the wheel would summon two dragons to their aid and enable Harry to speak with them.

Harry stroked the base of the wheel, and then touched it to make sure that it could still turn freely after the way he'd used it. The spokes clicked musically, and he relaxed.

There was more to come.

* * *

There were tons of rumors in the folder that Clearwater had given her.

Hermione sat back and wiped at her eyes. She had been reading for hours, and although it wouldn't affect her this way most of the time, now it made her eyes burn. She sipped at the glass of water beside her and regarded the folder again.

Most of her, the part that worked under the curse to try and be obedient to Clearwater, was fascinated by the variety and depth of the rumors about Harry.

The guarded corner of her mind was appalled.

And fascinated, she had to admit. Hermione turned back a few of the pages that she had already turned over and read them again, shaking her head. She had known Harry had enemies, but nothing like the bitterness that powered some of this gossip would ever have occurred to her. He had ended a war and reduced the most powerful Dark Lord the world had seen in generations to dust. That was worthy of respect, or at least tolerance.

But not to the people who said that he had tortured prisoners in Azkaban. Not to the people who alleged that he had stolen millions of Galleons and funneled them into his own vaults (and that he was now using the funds to finance the war). Not to the ones who whispered that his gift of Parseltongue and the Dark spells he had been "known" to cast meant he had inherited Voldemort's spirit, and would someday crush the wizarding world beneath his feet and execute Muggleborns by the hundreds.

Hermione touched a small pile of parchment pages she had already put aside. Those were the rumors she had thought people might believe, the ones that accused Harry of corruption, trading on his fame, and jealousy of Minister Duplais because he had wanted the position for himself. They also accused him of losing his temper regularly. There was nothing unusual about any of that, and yes, many people would believe it.

But she wondered if she should increase the size of the pile. If some of the other rumors could get started in the first place, and had enough circulation to receive a respectful listening-to at the Auror offices, then they might swallow anything.

And just like that, her plan of action, the one that would satisfy both Minister Clearwater and the guarded corner of her mind, occurred to her.

She only had to choose the rumors that sounded both most juicy and least explicable, and begin circulating them. Enough people would eat them up—people of the kind who eagerly read Rita Skeeter's articles—that it wouldn't seem to the Ministry that they were too unbelievable, and at the same time the rational ones would begin to pull back and regard what came out of the Minister's office with a more skeptical eye. It might take a while to tilt the balance in that direction, but Hermione thought time was an asset she did have. The Ministry would want to take weeks, perhaps months, to make sure that the public understood Harry's "true nature" as much as possible.

She smiled, and began to make a new pile, while the guarded corner whispered more plans to her and the obedience to Minister Clearwater lashed and wriggled in her head like a living thing.

* * *

Draco had never flown like this before.

He had dreamed of flying on a dragon, of course. Most wizarding children did. A dragon must exist, somewhere, who was both tame and friendly and who would choose you to be their companion in return, seeing that you were special and wonderful, unlike all the other children around you and even your parents. Then it would land beside you, extend a wing and let you climb onto its back. Draco's version of the private dream had included him making a noble speech forgiving everyone for their sins against him before the dragon carried him off to his adventures.

But he had grown up, and learned more of the facts about dragons, and had decided that he wouldn't _want _someone trying to introduce him to one. Tame dragons were figments of imagination and nothing more. Draco had calmly accepted that some childhood stories were more real than others, and gone about his life.

Now…

Now he was living the dream, and seated behind the man who had made it come true.

Draco kept trying to divide his gaze, between the rushing, blackened ground below, and the great wings beating beside him as the Hebridean Black sailed through the night, and the straight, slim back ahead. Now and then Potter touched his wheel and hissed a command in Parseltongue. There would come a spark from the jade eye in the center of the wheel, and the dragon would turn right or left, closely followed by its companion. Draco had to admit he was impressed with the level of Potter's control over the beasts. Two dragons in close quarters like this would normally be fighting by now.

But he was more impressed with the man who had done this.

Draco folded his fingers into a loose fist and massaged them for a moment before he sought his wand and cast another Warming Charm. Rushing along at a speed that outstripped any broom, jolted up and down by the motion of the wings, they were far more necessary here than Draco had ever found them during Quidditch.

Potter was the one who might give him his parents back, or at least the best chance of rescuing his parents.

But Draco could picture his father turning his face away, his mother lowering her eyes if they learned of Draco's choice of his side. Accept the gifts that Potter could hand him, surely, but wholehearted support was something else. Draco was supposed to lead from the front, or at the least from behind the throne. And while Potter seemed to value Draco more than he had done before the shadow hounds came hunting him, Draco knew he was far from the position that Weasley occupied.

What worried him most was not his dreams of what his parents would say about it, or even the fact that he might never _learn _what they would say about it. What worried him most was that he couldn't bring himself to care.

At least, not much. He still didn't want to roll over at Potter's feet like a dog or a Weasley. But if Potter never did anything but smile at him and perhaps take him as his lover, Draco would still be satisfied. He didn't need a position of extreme trust.

He didn't need as much power over Potter as he knew Potter had over him.

Draco closed his eyes and felt a slow shiver travel over his body, hard enough to make him jerk and shudder. Well, it seemed that _part _of him was still concerned about that particular admission. Good. That might keep him from getting too complacent.

But as long as Potter continued to be powerful, beautiful, compassionate, and considerate, Draco wasn't sure that even that part of him could protect his sanity. Potter was asking questions with every gesture, turning to the fighters who had disdained to follow him or found him too frightening to follow and asking them to reconsider. Draco could feel the silent questions pressing against _his _brain, too, and he might be one of the few in the revolution experienced enough in power dynamics to realize what the end result would be.

A schism in the revolution. Those who found it intolerable to follow Potter would desert, or decide to fight the war in their own way. Those who could follow him would become the kind of loyal bodyguard that Draco knew Potter _must _have dreamed about, even though he would deny it if someone asked him. Didn't everyone dream of being a king or a queen at one part?

There was no real question about where the Weasleys' choices would fall, and there ought not to be a question about others among the rebels as well, though Draco suspected Potter would hold out hope long after a sensible person would give it up. But Draco?

There was no question about him, either.

Even if there ought to be.

He shut his eyes and listened to the steady beating of the wings for a time. That was the most sensible course at this point. Remind himself of the inevitable, that he was being carried closer and closer to Azkaban, and to irreversible decisions, with every wingbeat.

As inevitable as other decisions that he would soon have to make.

* * *

George leaned back on the cushioned seat and grunted. They could try their best with charms, but a dragon's back was still a bloody damn uncomfortable place when it came to one's aching arse.

_You felt it, _Fred murmured in the back of his head, his voice more subdued than usual, but also more urgent. _You know you did. The way that the powers shifted and boiled and churned around Harry. The way that the world shifted when he called the dragons._

_ I felt it, _George admitted, since he knew answering his brother aloud would cause his fellow passengers to become more upset than was strictly necessary. _But I don't know what it means. _

_ Neither do I._

George blinked. It was unlike Fred to admit that, proud bastard that he was.

_It doesn't mean that I won't know what it means in the fullness of time, _Fred said haughtily. George recognized the tone that Fred had used to try and convince Ronniekins to eat bugs when they were all younger, and rolled his eyes. _No, really, _Fred insisted. _I'm sure that I can find out. Something about the shifting seemed—familiar. It doesn't mean that I know for certain what it is, but I can find it out by tracing the similarities back._

George shrugged. He had to admit that that was the major difference between them: George had always been fascinated by small problems, Fred by big ones. George was the one who had figured out the spell that would let them make a swamp in the middle of Hogwarts when they left in the middle of their seventh year. Fred had wanted to make a swamp that would perpetuate itself and be impossible to dismiss, a much more wide-ranging and (in the end) insoluble problem.

_Well, tell me when you've figured it out, then, _he said, and leaned over the dragon's side to see if he could tell where they were.

Not really, he thought a moment later. The clouds that sometimes raced past them masked most of the land below, and the darkness did the rest. But when he closed his eyes and concentrated on his nose, he realized that he could smell the salt that indicated the sea. They were getting close to Azkaban, then. George took a deep breath and gripped his wand harder. He had to admit that he had no idea how well the jade wheel would work when they got there. Okay, summoning two dragons, fine, but more than that? Did Harry have that much control, that much will, that much fire resistance?

_I've been thinking about it, _Fred said suddenly.

George started, and then tried to convince both his twin and himself that he'd meant to do that. _Have you? Good. Then we can decide what enchantments we should work on Harry when we actually get there._

Fred snorted at him. _I wasn't thinking about fire. I was thinking about those forces I feel shifting in the world when Harry uses his magic._

George cocked his head to the side. _All the times that Harry uses his magic? _That was the first time he'd heard about _that. _Then again, the only big magic George had known Harry to use before the jade wheel was Fortuna's Wheel, which he had only seen once, and the fire that burned up the Inferi, which George wasn't there to see.

_Yes. Every time. _Fred's voice was iron, which meant he was hiding at least a bit of uncertainty. George waited him out, and finally Fred sighed and admitted, _Well, this is the only time I've felt it. But—something's not right, George. Our Harry didn't have access to that sort of power during the war, or he would have used it against Voldemort. I'm sure he would have. Why does he have it now?_

George gave a mental shrug, although he probably could have made it a physical one and no one would have noticed. Most of his fellow passengers had their eyes closed in prayer or were watching the dragon's wings with an expression of awe, not looking at him. _It's been seven years since the war. Time for his magic to grow and develop?_

_ Something more than that, _Fred muttered, and paused, irresolute.

The booming of the sea passed underneath them. George braced himself with a hand on the scales—pleasantly warm against the cold of this height—and leaned over to look down. He could see the faint white gleams that marked the tops of waves. _Well, let me know when you've figured it out._

Fred retreated into the back of his mind the way he would do when George had got him sufficiently angry. George grinned and looked to the right, what he thought was the west from here.

He felt it happen again—the jolting and shifting of great forces, like feeling a muffled earthquake. Fred made a triumphant sound in the back of his head, but didn't say anything aloud. George nodded, conceding the point. If this happened just from Harry using the wheel, then it was something worth investigating.

The silent call of the wheel boomed out across the sky. George grinned at nothing, wondering what the people who rode with them would do when they figured out what had happened. Two dragons were enough to ride to an attack on Azkaban, but not enough (probably) to actually destroy the prison, especially if the guards stood their ground and managed to hurt them. So Harry was calling others.

The first flash of bright wings crossed George's vision at the same time as someone cried out in shock. Harry held up his hands, fire shining between them. He was the only one, George included, who wasn't clutching desperately at the leather straps that bound them inadequately to the dragons' backs.

_He's fearless, _George thought in some admiration.

_Yes. _Fred was nodding so hard his head could have fallen off, if he'd had one. _That's part of it. That's important._

* * *

They were here.

And the other dragons were coming.

Harry turned from dragon to dragon, holding out the pattern of fire that explained his soul. They hissed, and their hisses made his body ring. Their wings beat, and he knew a single gust could sweep him from the seat where he sat, not very securely, kneeling up in the leather straps so that he could gain some height and show off the pattern. The darkness all around him flared with light, fire and the moon reflecting off different colors of scales and eyes that studied him in what Harry couldn't be entirely sure was friendliness. He wondered what would happen if one of them breathed. He might be immune to fire, and so might the dragon he was riding, but the other people—Ron, George, Draco, Wheelwright, a dozen others—weren't. He had to protect them. He was responsible if they died.

Oddly, that burden seemed to settle him, rather than making him frantically convinced, as it had only a short time before, that it meant he had to take all the risks and it was unacceptable to ask them to face danger. He knew better now, thanks to Ron and Draco. He rose fully to his feet—making Ron yelp and grab his ankle because he apparently feared that Harry was about to topple over the side—and held his hands up as high as they would reach, until his arms ached.

He wondered what would happen if he leaped from the dragon's back. The way he felt now, with fire turning inside his body as well as without and his mind resonating with the cadences of translated Parseltongue, he thought he might fly.

But he wasn't about to try finding out, because that really _would _give Ron a heart attack. He held the fire higher still as an Antipodean Opal-eye circled lazily past, sides glowing crystalline, studying the fire. He wondered how far it had come from, and if it was as far as the breeze that had caressed his head earlier that evening.

No place to run, no backup plan if this didn't work. He was as committed to this as a small hatchling dragon staggering forwards with wide-spread wings and plunging into the air for the first time. Drop or rise, sink or swim.

Fall or fly.

It might have been the soul-fire that did it, or the thoughts in his head that resembled a dragon hatchling's. Either way, the Antipodean Opal-eye sheered off, and so did the Hebridean Blacks behind it and the single Chinese Fireball, and began to circle the dragons they rode at a distance. Harry watched the rippling effect of their wings and tails, and nodded.

Yes. He understood now. The whole of the night said _We will follow. Hold us back until you need us._

He hissed his thanks through the wheel and sat back down. Ron only let him go when a full minute had passed. Harry flashed him a faint smile and then turned his head so that he was looking at everyone else on the dragon's back, insofar as that was possible. He made especially sure to catch Draco's eye.

"You'll need to go down there and free the prisoners after we've dealt with the guards," he said. "I don't think I can leave the dragons without something, um, unfortunate happening."

"Like them burning a bunch of people alive," Draco muttered.

"Yes, that." Harry studied pale circle after pale circle of faces in the gloom, and raised his eyebrows. "Does anyone have questions?"

There were none.

Harry turned and rested his hand on the dragon's neck, speaking to the wheel. Once again, the cavalcade moved forwards, ready to call down doom and fire and storm upon Azkaban.


	20. Fire and Storm

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty—Fire and Storm_

They were over the sea now. Harry could feel the dragons' shivers of revulsion through the wheel. They could fly over the ocean, but they still hated it, with the instinctive opposition normally felt between fire and water.

Harry smiled. What he wanted to suggest next should go over well, then. "_Direct your fire down,_" he hissed in Parseltongue, making sure he concentrated on the snaky shape of the dragon's head floating in front of him so that he wouldn't accidentally say the words in English.

The dragon beneath him jerked and bellowed as though stung at the command, and it reverberated out over the line. Harry held up the pattern of fire again. They quieted, and he realized that they hadn't been seriously considering rebellion; it was simply something that had to happen, so that they could reassure themselves they were still free, still wild.

He wondered how well he would understand dragons before this was done, and if that would be a good thing.

As one, the dragons bowed their heads and parted their jaws. Harry shouted a warning back to his people, but kept his own eyes open and focused forwards. He would never forgive himself if he missed this.

Lances of fire made the darkness flicker as they reached out and down. Harry could feel Ron's tension without turning around. He would be thinking that they'd just revealed to the guards at Azkaban exactly where they were. And that might be true, assuming they were close enough to the prison yet that the guards would see the fire as anything more important than the distant shine of stars.

And it might have been true if not for what happened next.

Fire met water. Enormous clouds of steam billowed up and around them, hiding them. Harry laughed and cast some rapid protective charms so that no one who rode with him would be burned. He couldn't say what might happen to someone who might fly to oppose them, of course, especially if that person was on a broom. Brooms didn't have much in the way of charms that would preserve them from magic like this.

And it _was _magic. Just because it hadn't come out of a wand didn't make it less powerful. Harry took a deep breath and pulled the heat and the wetness into his lungs, feeling his body throb as he reached out for it. There was something else, too, a tease of the same power that he felt pulling at him from the dragons. He turned his head, seeking after it, and thought he saw a gleam of gold through the fog.

"Harry!"

Ron's warning shout put his attention back where it should be, on the steam. The dragons bore through it without changing direction; Harry knew they had more senses than their eyes to guide them. But some of his people were crying out in fear and fury, and raising their wands to cast charms that would make the steam billow away from around them.

"No."

His voice was a flat command, and if it could lay calm on the dragons, then Harry thought he could manage with a group of wizards, none of whom had that same wildness in their souls, most of whom trusted him. He saw wands lower and some people exchange sheepish glances, but others gave him the full brunt of glares and harsh words.

"What do you think you're _doing, _Potter?" That was the voice of Catchers, who had come along on the raid after all. Harry didn't know why, since he had protested and complained all the way. Harry had heard his voice not directly, but as a buzzing distraction on the edge of hearing. He looked at Catchers now and raised his eyebrows.

"What do you think I'm doing?" he asked. "I'm leading a raid on Azkaban, the way that I told our people I would."

Catchers shook his head, or at least Harry thought he did. He was seated the farthest back of anyone on the same dragon Harry rode, and his face was little more than a pale blur surrounded by two kinds of darkness, his black hood and the night. It was worse now that the steam was up around them and shedding a silvery mist of confusion around the edges of their protective charms. "Not that. I understand _that _part well enough." His voice could have blistered paint. "But you didn't warn us. You didn't explain your plans."

"So you could expose them to the Ministry, you mean?" Draco said, not low enough for Harry's peace of mind. "Yes, I can see how that would be inconvenient."

Harry cast Draco a warning glance. Perhaps it was true that Catchers was a spy for the Ministry, though in that particular case, Harry thought the signs that he was would have shown up before now; Catchers was just too volatile. But they didn't need other people to start believing that and spread the rumor around. That would be the surest way to lose Catchers's allegiance.

Draco raised his eyebrows back, and Harry blinked. He had thought Draco would back down at once; he'd had a sort of cringing silence about him ever since Harry had explained what he'd done with the shadow hounds. That was understandable. He'd been living alone for seven years and failing in the one goal most important to him.

Now he was doing decidedly better. Harry was glad of that. But of _course _it would happen now, when Harry had to worry about keeping the delicate balance between those loyal to him, like Draco, and those whose loyalty could be tipping.

"I didn't want to explain them because of spies," Harry called back to Catchers. "You're right, I could have done certain things differently. I would have, if I had come to my senses earlier. But it took my friends to get me there."

"So tell us what you plan to do, now." There was a shifting motion that might have been Catchers settling back on the dragon and folding his arms. The silent expectation all around him said _This had better be good. _

Harry clenched his teeth so that he didn't snarl in irritation. It was difficult, but then, he'd had a lot of practice when he still worked for the Ministry. "I did. We're going to get the prisoners out first, and then burn the place down. We'll bring the prisoners back to the Manor and hide them while we decide who can be helped and who can't."

"But the tactics?" Catchers might have been drumming one hand against his knee, always a nervous signal with him, but again, it was hard to see in the dark. "The strategy? What side are we going to go in from?"

"I don't know yet," Harry said. "I don't know enough about the layout of the prison. You know that that sort of information isn't generally available, and that none of our people came from Azkaban."

Catchers might have been snarling; he might have been smiling. Harry cursed the darkness and the distance again. "You should have tried to get your hands on a map before we attacked. There _are _maps. But once again, you thought you could do anything, didn't you?"

Harry sat down and turned his back on Catchers. Perhaps it was the stupid thing to do. It might make him look weak in the eyes of his followers. But in a short while they would be fighting for their lives, and he didn't have time to indulge Catchers.

"Potter." Catchers sounded as if he thought Harry was ignoring him.

"Fight when we get there," Harry said. "I'll expect you to look out for your life and the lives of those who follow you, not concentrate on arguing with me." He lifted his hand and drove it forwards, timing it with the flap of the dragons' wings.

"That you could _think—"_

Then they were hurtling forwards at breathless speed, and Catchers's voice was lost in the wind around them. Harry shook his head and let his thoughts go. He wondered if this was what a boulder felt like when it began to fall.

The world around them clanged and danced past, and the dragon beneath Harry began to rumble. Harry smiled and laid his hand flat on the scales, feeling the heat the surged under them. The dragon wasn't breathing fire; it wasn't breathing in an ordinary way, either. He knew this was a sort of special breathing it used in flight, when it prepared for trouble and organized the air it took in, diverting some to the wings and most to the lungs.

_How do I know that? _

The wheel's communication wasn't one-way, he thought. It told the dragons what he wanted, but also told him something about what they thought and felt. He wouldn't want to risk his life on it—

_Even though you are._

But it was something, there, a fragile bond connecting them. He wondered if anyone could have done this if George had invented the right instrument, or if it needed a Parseltongue-speaker.

_Or someone willing to stop into the heart of the fire._

It wasn't long before a flickering blue light pierced the cloud of steam around them. Harry knew it was the light of a searching spell, and he started to touch the dragon's back so that they could angle away from it.

The Hebridean Black lowered his head and breathed instead, and the steam grew thicker around them, more water meeting fire and churning up in silvery clouds. The blue light reflected off grey and white and nothing else, and then died, lost. Harry nodded. The dragons knew the stakes as well as they did, though doubtless not for the same reasons. The Azkaban guards wouldn't find them.

Until the moment when the air overheard loomed with bellies and wings, at least.

Harry closed his eyes as he felt the concentrated magic of the prison come nearer, focusing on an image of the web-like pattern that the dragons' wings had woven earlier. He thought of it as made of ice and the moon, high and glinting light, and he imagined that it coiled around the jaws and feet of the animals they rode and the ones who flew guard behind. Nothing could truly contain a dragon but its own will, of course.

That was the point. He needed some way to hold them back for a time so that his people could get into Azkaban and free the prisoners, and this was the only way, to weave the image in his mind's eye and make them think it was their own idea.

The dragon he rode hissed, and the female Hebridean hissed back a moment later. They came to a halt, hovering, hanging above the water the way they'd hung above Harry when he first summoned them. He didn't feel anger booming around him and burning the scales under his hand, but a vast, slow puzzlement.

Harry reached out to them at the same moment as he reached out to the other dragons accompanying them. He showed the fire, and he showed the pattern of light, and then he showed the fire sketching in the same pattern. It was his own will. The dragons couldn't feel it as a curb or a net, he knew that. They would break such things on principle. He had to show them what he wanted, and hope they agreed.

The Opal-eye came glittering out of the cloud beside him, so close that Harry could see the fangs through the steam. It stared at him, and Harry faced up to the light in its eyes and stubbornly repeated the pattern.

The Opal-eye snarled and dived, tail writhing across the sky as if it was a crocodile. It opposed him because it wanted to. Harry knew it was nothing personal, but he also knew it was immensely dangerous, and he would be stupid if he let the other dragons pick up on that desire and express it in the same way.

He understood something about dragons that he never would have without the wheel and the experience of communicating with them like this, though. He understood that they could be attracted by beauty, that they often held off on smashing their own eggs and hatchlings because they admired the way they shone, and that gave him a weapon. He reached down and back, blindly stretching out a hand.

Ron caught it. Draco caught his arm in the same instant.

Harry didn't have time to choose between them. He reached out to them with his magic, and he reached back into the wheel with his voice, speaking descriptions of the light that flowered behind his eyes. The wheel clicked and clacked, and spun his voice into Parseltongue and then into the dragons' tongue, sending it across the sky to them.

And spinning Draco's and Ron's souls into fire.

* * *

Draco didn't know what would happen when Potter reached out. He only knew that Potter was asking for help with that gesture, and Draco hadn't given him help since the shadow hounds. If Potter did too much for him, then he would be in his debt again.

And Draco might not feel the need for power over Potter that he knew would consume his father if Lucius was in this situation, but he did feel the need for _some _pride.

He let his fingers close on Potter and press against both cloth and skin in answer, and Potter took hold of something in him. Draco gasped and closed his eyes. It was exquisitely painful, as though someone was pulling his organs out of his chest, one by one.

Weasley made a sick sound beside him, as if he could feel the same sensation but wasn't as calm about it as Draco was. Well, of course not, Draco thought, and tried to concentrate on regulating his breathing when it wanted to rage out of control. No one was as calm about it as Draco was. He was a machine, a perfect sculpted statue that never needed sympathy from anyone, a—

A man in pain. He ended up pulling away from Potter even though he didn't want to go, because the muscles _and _the organs in his chest were turning to jelly, and there were some things he couldn't give to Potter no matter how much he might want to.

He opened his eyes to see Potter smiling at him. His fingers shone with spots of fire, and he inclined his head to Draco and then to Weasley. Draco would remember that afterwards. Potter had nodded to him first.

"Thank you," Potter whispered, and turned and held out his hand to the sky, fingers splayed. From around them came sharp hisses and bellows that abruptly trailed off when they saw what Potter held.

Or perhaps it had something to do with the mad spinning of the wheel in Potter's other hand. Draco didn't know. He could understand the magical theory behind the wheel if someone explained it to him, he was sure, but he could never have invented such a thing himself, or guessed that Parseltongue would allow one to communicate with dragons. He wondered for an idle moment why the Dark Lord had never tried to recruit dragons to his cause.

Then he shuddered and banished the speculation. It had never happened. That was reason enough to be grateful for whatever weakness or weariness had held the monster back.

Potter once again rose to his feet on the dragon's back, and this time both Weasley and Draco hung onto his legs. Weasley gave Draco a wary look, as if he didn't know what Draco was doing there but was afraid to ask. But Draco only glared back and held onto Potter's leg a little harder. Weasley had needed him to rescue Potter, to make speeches to Potter, and to give Potter his soul so far. Weasley had done much the same, but he couldn't have done it alone. Draco tried to say all that with his silent stare, and after a moment, Weasley looked away and nodded sharply.

Neither of their hands relaxed.

Potter might not have noticed them. He held out three twining, glittering patterns of fire to the dragons instead, all three changing so rapidly that Draco didn't know where the colors of one ended and another began. He did think that one was mostly red, one mostly green, and one mostly gold. Potter spoke in a manner that swarmed with challenge, and the wheel spun wildly enough that Draco thought the jade eye would fly out of the center of it and fall to earth.

The nearest Hebridean Black without riders appeared suddenly next to him. The faceted eyes watched the patterns of fire, and then the dragon raised its wings and sheered down and away.

From the breath Potter took in—and the fire that it didn't breathe at them—Draco surmised his plan had been worked, whatever it was.

The next to appear was the Chinese Fireball, its scales bleeding with scarlet light, its eyes clouded with the transparent malice of a snake as it stared at their souls. One glance and _it _was gone, too, rolling through the darkness and the steam like a fish through water.

More eyes came and peered, and each time the dragon left. Draco shook his head. If someone had told him yesterday that he'd be on the back of a dragon tonight, showing his soul to other dragons and persuading them that way not to attack or at least not to flail against the fragile skein of Potter's control before they could land…

He would have said that they were mad.

And he would have closed his eyes and tried to think of his parents, whom he was here for, who weren't far away.

That realization and remembrance chilled the grip of his fingers on Potter's ankle, but the git had sat down again anyway. He nodded to them. "The dragons will stay back while you rescue the prisoners," he said. "But we need to get close enough to the island that you can land safely. And take care of the guards before that," he added thoughtfully.

Weasley grunted. "Good plan, mate, but how in the world are you going to set us down in the middle of all this steam and let us find the guards without alerting them that we're coming?"

"Surprise isn't really a problem," Potter said slowly, closing his eyes. "They know we're coming."

Draco rolled his eyes, because he couldn't believe Weasley hadn't picked that up already from all the flash and fire around Harry and the rest of them, but remained silent. It wasn't as though he had a solution for the problem, either, and his father would have said that speaking up when he didn't have either that or a complication that everyone else was overlooking made him part of the problem.

His father.

Draco swallowed, and opened his eyes to watch the man all his hopes, impossibly, had come to hang on.

* * *

Harry looked down into the smoke and mist and steam swirling around the feet of the dragon and had to admit that finding the guards in this and making sure that they hit but didn't kill them would be rather hard.

That meant it was up to him to find the solution again. He was an expert at unusual problems and tricks, wasn't he?

He flexed the fingers of his left hand—he had to keep his right free in case he needed to show the patterns of soul-fire to the dragons again—and spoke to his wild magic. It leaped up around his fist in a flare of light, eagerly. He hadn't used it much lately, occupied as he'd been with preparing the raid and then using the wheel.

"Mate?" Ron's voice, wary.

"What are you doing, Potter?" Malfoy had an undertone of eagerness, rather like a hunting hound.

"Finding them," Harry said, and closed his eyes. Communing with his wild magic was a weird process. The books he'd read had told him that wild magic had its name because it was vicious, violent, chaotic, and not prone to control.

Rather like the dragons, then, and the way that everyone had said they couldn't be tamed.

Harry reached down into the depths of his being, into the depths of his magical core. This had been the first thing he'd had to learn, how to connect his conscious mind with a part of him that normally remained so silent and embedded in him that it didn't feel like anything at all. Then he had to join it all up to his will, and turn _himself _like a huge wheel, spinning it all together, and not letting the magic erupt from the tight bonds he kept it in at any point.

There was a pause, probably more unnerving for the people on the dragon with him than anything else, and then Harry opened his eyes and extended his hands in front of him. He wasn't entirely sure what would happen next. He moved with his magic like a partner in a dance, reaching out for its hand on the next step but not always sure of exactly what movements it would make.

The magic formed a flat circle of golden light in front of him. Harry peered at it, and then smiled. It pierced downwards through the fog around him, opening a way to the island of Azkaban itself. He nodded.

"I can see them," he said, and he could indeed make out the small figures of robed men and women moving back and forth, some of them milling around but others taking up position in line as though they expected an attack shortly. Harry knew they couldn't have much idea of what was coming, though, or they would have raised stronger defenses than the ones he saw. "And they're going to get a nasty surprise in a minute."

"You won't kill them?" Ron didn't sound as though he knew whether he wanted that to happen or not.

"No," Harry said. "I don't need to." He wasn't looking back over his shoulder, but his magic told him that Ron ducked his head and swallowed a little, as though considering whether he found that answer any more reassuring.

Harry couldn't do much about it if he didn't. He spread his fingers wide, drew in his breath, and sent the fire flying from him and down through the lens.

The lens shimmered, and the magic bucked in him, making him forget about the dragon for a moment and feel as if he was riding lightning. Harry laughed. His body ached with light, his muscles cooled with heat. He flung the fire down, and watched through the lens as it forked and forked again, forming whips that sprouted more tendrils. The dragon, the source of those climbing vines, stirred uneasily, but Harry hissed soothingly to it through the wheel, and he thought it was calming down even before the message reached it. The weapon he used was based on fire, after all.

The guards on Azkaban found themselves bound by burning ropes that shifted closer and singed their skin or hair whenever they tried to move. Harry counted them as they fell over, and nodded when the number of guards he had seen on his first peering through the lens and the number of resting and bound ones matched.

"It's done," he said. "I'll ask the dragons to stop breathing steam, and then they can carry you over the island and you can descend. I don't think it's a good idea to let them get too close to the walls yet."

"It's done," Draco whispered behind him.

Harry grinned over his shoulder at him. He saw Ron blanch, but Draco just stared at him with wide eyes, eager to believe. "Yes. It is. You'll have your parents back shortly."

Draco shut his eyes and said nothing as Harry turned, speaking into the wheel, and took the Hebridean Blacks ashore.


	21. Moving Forwards

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-One—Moving Forwards_

Draco coiled the long rope in his hands and closed his eyes briefly in prayer. He didn't really have anyone to pray to, but if someone out there heard him and wanted to take up his cause, then he would welcome the assistance.

He, Weasley, Catchers, and the rest of those who had ridden with Potter were going to take the plunge from a dragon's back on ropes. Dangling over the ground of an island that was still mostly hidden by the remnants of the steam the dragons had stirred up, and haunted by the echoes of fire. Hundreds of feet below.

Draco hoped that his face wasn't as pale as Weasley's, but he was afraid that it was. He wound his hands more firmly in the rope.

"You can do this."

He blinked and then looked up at Potter. Potter had seemed to sense his discomfort, the way he would do at the damnedest times. His eyes were gentle as he gazed into Draco's, and he reached out as though he would touch Draco's cheek and tilt his head back before he seemed to sense Weasley's curious gaze—and perhaps Draco's own mixed feelings—and let his hand drop.

"I promise you, you can," Potter said, and this time his nod was more impersonal, that of a commander reassuring a soldier, rather than a friend who had been about to lend another friend strength through his touch. "The dragons will swoop and catch you if you fall." He touched his wheel, as though that was what Draco had questioned his faith in.

Draco gave a sickly smile in return. This time, he was sure it was stronger than Weasley's, which cheered him up a bit.

Potter turned his head and seemed to listen to something the dragons said, perhaps something that had come to him through the wheel. Draco stared at the artifact from the corner of his eye and wondered if even the Weasley who had invented it knew how the bloody thing worked. It seemed to draw Potter further away from all of them, into a world where he could make an image of fire into his soul and do the same thing with theirs.

"Now," Potter said, and lifted his hand. The wheel clicked and spun, and Draco heard soft sounds from all around them as the dragons hovered in place. He could also feel the wind of their doing so pushing against his body, and hoped that it wouldn't twist him or make him lose his grip on the way down.

"Here goes nothing," Weasley muttered, and pushed himself off the dragon's back, climbing down hand-over-hand as the ropes, obeying the enchantments buried in their weaving, began to uncoil obediently.

Draco took several deep breaths, thought of his parents and then, inexplicably, of the way Potter's face had looked after he saved him from the shadow hounds, and pushed himself off to follow.

He felt the dragon's scales sliding rapidly past him and fought the temptation to brace himself against their warmth. He hadn't realized until now how hot the scales had been, how protected they had kept the dragon's riders as they soared through the cold air at the heights. And then he was past and dropping, the straps of the cushions hanging above him, the air everywhere else.

He started to spin. Draco closed his eyes and concentrated on keeping his focus, not letting the dizziness overwhelm him. Weasley was cursing steadily from somewhere below him.

He would have to make this drop again, only as an ascent. And he would have to discover some way to get his parents safely up. There was no way that he could come this far and then abandon them out of fear.

No way.

Draco reached out with his legs and kicked himself off from one of the dangling straps. Someone cursed above him, this time, but he didn't care. That had been the last push he needed, the leaving of the illusion of safety, and now the rope unwound faster and faster, dropping him through ragged scraps of cloud and leftover steam that brushed against his skin with its damp heat.

Down, down, down.

The rope did spin, but Draco found that he could counter the dizziness with images of his mother's face. Was she still sane? Would she know him when he saw her? Would his father come to him when the door opened, or attack, or had they both forgotten him in favor of staring at stone walls?

Draco shivered when those thoughts struck him, but what had tormented him for the past seven years was having no answers to those questions. Now he would have them, whether or not they were favorable.

The busyness of his mind kept him content until they reached the ground and their boots struck rock. Draco at once let go of the rope and flexed his hands. His fingers were bleeding from the tear of the hemp. He was vaguely surprised that he hadn't felt the pain on the way down, but then, he supposed that it might not have been as noticeable.

Weasley was beside him, drawing his wand and looking around as though he thought Potter hadn't neutralized all the guards after all. Draco spared only one glance for them, lying helpless in their bonds of fire and staring at the intruders with hatred. If Potter said they would stay secure, then they would have. Draco knew Potter would have come himself, needed to control the dragons or not, if he hadn't thought it was safe for his people to venture here.

"Stay close to me," Weasley whispered to the men and women forming up behind him, in a square training maneuver that Draco didn't know. Draco ignored them and followed Weasley's advice in his own manner, stepping up beside him. Weasley spared him an intense glance, then ignored him as though by common agreement and focused on the terrain ahead. "We don't know what might be out there."

That reminded Draco that, disarmed guards or not, they could still run into wards. He gathered his wand close to himself and listened for the telltale hum of spells that would react to the advent of intruders.

He didn't hear any until Weasley started forwards, his face set in a frown of concentration. Then the ground beneath his feet hummed.

Draco moved without thinking about it, the only thought in his head what people would say to him if Weasley died when Draco was standing right beside him. He slammed his shoulder into Weasley's and twisted, throwing him off-balance and to the side while he raised a protective shield around them. Weasley, startled, grappled with him, but that actually wasn't a problem, since it made them fall further.

The air where they'd been standing burst into white flame. Draco felt it singe his eyelashes from where he lay. He flinched and scrubbed his hand over his face. Damn. The Ministry _really _didn't want people poking around here.

"Malfoy." Weasley's voice was quiet.

Draco rolled over to look at him. They'd landed hard on the stone, but it seemed to have affected Weasley less than Draco. He was already back on his feet, and staring at the singed patch of stone and weak grass as though he couldn't believe his eyes. The other trainees were still in the process of flinching.

"What?" Draco asked, expecting to be blamed for the bruises that Weasley must have taken in the fall.

Weasley's mouth worked for a minute; then he turned away with a snort. "You have my permission to push me to save my life," he said. "_If _that's the reason you're doing it, and not for anything else."

Draco reckoned that was as close to gratitude as Weasley could come, at least where there were other people around to listen. He scrambled up to his feet and smiled sweetly at Weasley. "You're welcome."

Weasley flushed, nodded, turned, and led them towards the prison. This time, Draco was content enough to follow, though he still kept a bit of distance between him and Weasley's other people.

The walls of Azkaban loomed next to them, grey and blank and chilly. Draco had to grit his teeth to keep himself from casting Warming Charms at them. Those wouldn't change the impression on his mind, he knew, which was the impression the prison was meant to give. The people they rendered captive here were supposed to become more and more inert, hopeless and helpless, their heads drooping with grief when they tried to move.

The thought made him clench his hands, and he strode ahead hardly looking around for more wards. There didn't seem to be any as destructive as the one that had almost done for Weasley, anyway, although several times the revolutionaries flinched around him and clutched at their ears as though something had buzzed painfully in them. Draco wondered for a moment why those wards didn't bother him.

Then he smiled grimly. Of course. Those wards would find it hard to bother someone who had used Dark Arts to protect himself, and Draco had cast the usual protective spells without thought the moment his feet touched down on the island.

Finally, they came to a door, grey like everything else here and barred with thick steel and more wards. Weasley put a finger to his lip as he leaned against the door, listening. Draco snorted—he thought Weasley was being unnecessarily dramatic—but he waited, and finally Weasley nodded, stepped back, opened the door with a few complicated taps of his wand against the wards, and waved them through.

Draco found himself in a grey stone corridor that sloped steeply down. Here and there was a cell, like a cave fronted with steel, but they were all empty. _Probably didn't want to keep prisoners so close to the sunlight, _Draco thought.

A great anger was burning inside him, he realize when he took a moment to consider his own feelings. Like a sun. He clapped a hand over his heart to try and soothe its wild beating so that no one else would sense it and learn what he was feeling, and led the way on, even when Weasley called to him to wait.

The wards inside the prison were weak, and tuned to ignore people who had wands, which none of the prisoners did. They leaped up, fizzed at them, and then burned out again. Draco ignored them easily, too, and lifted his lit wand above his head. The tunnel became darker and darker, and at last he was convinced that his first impression was right, that the prisoners were left here entirely without light. What happened if they dropped some of the food from their trays or stumbled into the latrine?

They would be left like that, Draco thought, trying desperately to recover squashed food or clean up the stinking mess, without magic. His anger grew.

The sloping corridor came to an abrupt stop, and a flight of stairs started. They were irregular heights. Draco called the warning back over his shoulder and then lifted his wand higher than ever. He didn't want to slip and fall on his way down. He wasn't entirely sure that Potter's revolutionaries would take it upon themselves to rescue him.

The cells appeared on either side of them, on ledges that projected out from the walls. Even if the prisoners had escaped, they would step out onto a tiny space of stone and then nothingness. Draco shuddered and reached up to touch a small chain around his neck that he wore so close to the skin he forgot it was there most of the time and no one else had ever commented on it.

The chain shivered when he touched it. It consisted of a number of small, hollow links. In the middle of each link was embedded a drop of Malfoy blood. Draco licked his lips and whispered beneath his breath so that no one could hear. He would have preferred to do the incantation nonverbally, but he didn't think he could put enough power behind it if he did, his voice was shaking so badly. "_Cruore_."

The chain swung in his grasp and pointed towards one section of the cells. Draco arched his neck, but he couldn't see which group it indicated. And he didn't know how they were supposed to reach the cells to let the prisoners go, anyway, if the stairs were the only way down. Would they have to climb to the floor and then climb up the walls?

"There must be a simpler method," Weasley muttered, as if he was echoing Draco's thoughts. Draco found that more likely than Weasley spontaneously coming up with a good idea on his own. "How did they feed them, if they couldn't reach them? I don't think this lot were dedicated enough to reach all the cells one at a time."

"Much less climb up the walls," added someone who was trying to sound like he knew what he was talking about, and only succeeded in sounding snotty. _Catchers, _Draco thought with a snort.

"Look, here it is!"

Weasley had touched something, and the floor beneath them grumbled and began to creak and clank. Draco flattened himself on the step he occupied. He wouldn't put it past Weasley to cast him into darkness, either. Sure, they were getting along for the time being, both admitting that they were necessary to keep Potter safe, but that didn't mean they _liked _each other.

But the stairs all shivered and then altered, and powerful magic whipped past Draco like the tail of a snake diving into a burrow. The stairs swung into line as if they were in Hogwarts, and then slender shelves extended out from them, bridges that connected to each cluster of cells.

"Bloody clever, Weasley," Catchers said grudgingly.

Draco wanted to give his own acknowledgment, but Catchers had stolen the words he would have used, so he looked over his shoulder and simply nodded, once and regally. Weasley flushed, showing that he knew as well as Draco whose commendation was worth more, and stuck his hands in his pockets.

"My dad's clever with Muggle things," he muttered. "I saw the lever, and I knew it had to move _something_. I just didn't know what."

Draco bit his tongue, but mentally took back a lot of the points he'd given Weasley—what if the lever had dropped them all into a pit?—and then checked the chain again. This time, it definitely pointed in front of him, along one of the bridges that spanned the air like a delicate sword blade. Draco grimaced, but he had done what he had to before, and this was far from the worst obstacle that he had crossed when attempting to free his parents. He stood up, arms spread out around him to balance his weight as he stepped forwards.

"Malfoy! Bloody hell, you idiot!"

But the bridge didn't collapse beneath Draco and the chain continued to tug him, so he ignored Weasley and continued. It wasn't as though the prat could _know _what tortures Draco had suffered, trying to get the Ministry to listen and trying to decide whether he should throw in with Potter or not and trying to accept that he would have to break his parents free, rather than wait for the Wizengamot to change their minds. It wasn't as though he knew anything beyond Potter.

Draco would burn the world for his parents. He would betray Potter for them, if it turned out to be necessary. He would certainly cross a little piece of metal in the air for them.

The bridge beneath his feet trembled and sang and hummed. But other people were following him out onto it now, as if curious to see why this part of the prison drew him, and Draco didn't look back. It had held so far. It would continue to hold. If it didn't, he had no compunctions about driving anyone who followed him off the bridge so that he could safely bring his parents out this way.

He was close now.

Seven years of a quest, seven years of a hopeless longing. It made his heart leap to life in his breast; it brought his breath springing from his lips. He would give it all up, heartbeat and breath and the rest, for them.

The chain in his hands sang and jerked straight. Draco put his hand on his side, wondering if his heart would actually beat its way out through his ribs, and continued on. The cluster of the nearest cells was rimmed with light from the charm on his wand and the charms of the others following him, and he leaned until he was balancing on his toes, straining to see inside.

The nearest cell had a man with long grey hair and a beard that was so filthy Draco recoiled instinctively from him, turning to look into the darkness beyond. Then a woman moved in the top cell and stared down at him.

It had been seven years, but Draco still knew the blue of her eyes.

"Mother," he tried to say, but he choked. He reached out a shaking hand, not realizing until it brushed against stone that he was far short of her cell. He swallowed and glanced back, wondering if there was another lever that could lift the bridge up to her cell.

"I'll do it, Malfoy."

Weasley's voice, close to his ear, and Draco didn't know what he was talking about until he felt hands on his leg. Weasley boosted him, and Draco found himself on the ledge outside Narcissa's cell. The distance had been less than he thought it was, after all. The guards had probably used magic to float up the food from the bridge.

He reached out and stuck his hand through the bars.

His mother hesitated, so long that Draco was forced to wonder if she didn't recognize him. Then she reached out. Her fingers entwined with his, so smooth and so long, the fingernails a twisting mass of yellow, that Draco had to close his eyes.

"Draco."

Her voice was cracked, choked, dry. It sounded as though she had starved and had no water for at least two days.

It was still the sweetest sound Draco had ever heard. He leaned his head on the bars, his tears trickling down his cheeks, and parted his lips. His mother turned her head to the side, and Draco kissed her cheek. It was as dry as her voice beneath his mouth.

"Your father," she whispered, dusty. She cleared her throat and tried again. "I haven't heard anything from him for two days. You should find him. I don't know if he's still—" She turned her head away and fell silent.

Draco nodded, easing back on the ledge so he could look at her. His mother's hair was white and withered, her hands covered with scabs and calluses and broken, suppurating wounds. He felt a surge of anger, but he knew that letting it out now would be counterproductive. The people who had hurt her weren't in the prison at the moment, anyway. "Of course, Mother. Is he in the cell next to yours?"

Narcissa nodded to the right and down. Draco turned around and bent down so that he could see over the ledge.

His father's face was as pale as the moon, and his eyes stared at nothing. Draco felt a surge of hatred before he realized that Lucius was still alive; it was merely the fixed quality of his eyes that had fooled Draco. Draco reached down, but he couldn't hold onto both his parents at once. He had to let go of his mother's hand so that his arm could reach full extension. Narcissa made a despairing little sound when he let her go, so Draco winced and shifted so that his boot was right next to the bars and she could hold onto it if she wanted.

Lucius whispered, "Son."

The tears hurt Draco's eyes.

* * *

Harry floated on the dragon, his eyes half-closed, watching the flares of fire from the corners of them and the center of the jade wheel. Now and then, the dragon under him stirred restlessly. He hissed to it, and it would settle back into drifting, but he thought the rebellions were coming more frequently. He hoped that Ron and Draco and the others returned before he had to do something drastic, such as let them burn down one wing of the prison, to appease the great beasts circling near.

A flash of gold caught his eye. Harry turned his head, wondering if the wheel had fetched another dragon that he would have to tame and soothe. He didn't mind, exactly, but he would like the surprises to stop appearing.

But the gold flash wasn't anything as simple as another dragon. Instead, Harry saw what looked like a flash of vivid lightning leaping from cloud to cloud. He blinked and leaned forwards, focusing on it. The lightning paused, crackling and shifting on the cloud ahead of him, and seemed to pose.

Harry shook his head. He had to be imagining things.

But the golden flash of lightning resolved into a figure that was immediately familiar: a stag, like his Patronus. Harry swallowed hard through a suddenly clogged throat and tried to remember the last time he had cast the Patronus. He couldn't, off the top of his head. He wondered if that was important, significant.

_Well, you have a Patronus made of lightning in front of you now and staring at you. Yeah, I'd say it's pretty important._

The stag dissolved back into light and flicked away among the clouds. Harry looked down, letting his hand rest on the dragon's neck, and thought about the temptation he had immediately experienced, to tell the Hebridean Black to follow. On a dragon, there was every possibility that he could catch up with the lightning.

_As if that's something you should be fooling with._

With relief, Harry wrapped his common sense around himself. Was it right, or sensible, to follow the lightning? Of course not. And it might be that some manifestation of wild magic had been pulled towards him by the presence of dragons and the fire he'd used to bind the guards earlier. Harry knew from his studies that there was some natural wild magic in the world, often contained in phenomena like storms and places soaked in human emotion. Azkaban would certainly qualify.

That all made sense, and certainly George and Draco and Ron and the others wouldn't be happy to come up from the prison and find him gone. Without his restraining influence, the dragons would probably move in and burn the prison down, and they would never be able to get all the prisoners home or decide what to do with the guards.

Gold flickered teasingly from the corner of his eye. Harry turned his head forwards again, mentally vowing to look up Patronuses again the moment he got back to the manor.

Then he sighed. No, he would have to do that after he made sure the dragons had been carefully released and wouldn't stay around him, and after the prisoners were settled, and after he got some rest…

Somewhere in the distance, lightning danced.


	22. The Way Out

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-Two—The Way Out_

The climb out of Azkaban was like a dream.

Draco took his mother across the bridge first, because his father insisted and the other revolutionaries had already cleared off to open other cell doors. She leaned on his arm and looked around at the darkness of the prison as though she had never seen it before, though Draco had imagined that she would be tired of looking at it if she was tired of anything. More than once, she put out a hand and seemed to feel the darkness, to stroke it as if it were a great, purring cat she was petting.

"Why are you doing that?" Draco finally asked her.

"Because," said his mother, her voice a beautiful sigh, "there is _space_."

Draco had to turn his head away, and not for the first time since he found her. He wanted to grit his teeth. He wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all, that had stolen seven years of his mother's freedom when she had saved Potter's bloody _life. _But screaming wouldn't get revenge for his parents or get them out of here safely, and at the moment, Draco had to put the second goal above the first. He locked his teeth together instead, locked the muscles of his throat, and gently guided Narcissa's footsteps.

When they reached the stairs, she had to rest for a time. Draco stood guard over her and turned his head sharply when someone came towards him. He had hoped it was Weasley, the one person whose company he might have welcomed at the moment, but it was Catchers, who gave him a glare as steady and arrogant as the will of the Ministry when they had assigned his parents to prison in the first place.

"This is a fool's dream," he said. "How are we going to get them out of here if we have to give them all the same amount of care that you're giving her?" He jerked his head towards Narcissa, as if speaking her name was beneath him.

"Worry about the rest," Draco responded. "I'm only here for my parents." He turned, glancing out along the bridge that led to the cells where Lucius still was. He would need to go in a moment, but his mother was leaning her head against his thigh, gulping in breaths as she recovered, and he knew that she wouldn't forgive him for moving away right now.

"That's all you care about," Catchers said. "Your own loyalties. Your own plans. You would have betrayed Potter to the Ministry if they could have promised safety and freedom for your parents, wouldn't you?"

Draco glanced up. "I think you would betray him for less concrete rewards than that."

Catchers closed his eyes in the same inexpressible weariness that Draco had seen Professor Snape use more than once. "You tire me," he said, and then moved away long another bridge to fetch someone else. Draco stroked his mother's hair and murmured wordless reassurances to her, then touched his wand to her left hand and snipped all the nails off with a single cosmetics charm. He did the same thing to her right hand and knelt in front of her, massaging her fingers and smiling into her eyes.

"I have to go fetch Father," he whispered. "You'll be glad when he's here, won't you? So that you can have someone to be with you, someone to comfort you?"

For a long moment, his mother's hand tightened so convulsively that Draco thought she wouldn't let him go. Then she released him with the barest puff of a grave-laugh. "Go and get him, Draco. I won't die in the time that it takes you to do that."

Draco heard the hollowness behind her voice and knew she was speaking more from a desire to appear strong than from actual, rational conviction. He kissed her on the cheek and rose. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

She nodded, and let him go. Draco squeezed her hand, hard, and in the end he was the one who had to work to part from her, far more than she from him.

This time, the trip along the bridge went much faster, and he managed to reach the quartet of cells without feeling out of breath or as though he would collapse from the singing and yanking of his chain. The chain was quiet now, thank Merlin; it knew that the individuals who bore Malfoy blood had been rescued. Draco leaned against the door and nodded to his father as though he was coming back from a walk across the Manor grounds.

"Are you ready to go home, Father?"

Lucius smiled with a bloodless twitch of his lips. "Home sounds wonderful, Draco, but I don't think that's what you mean. The Ministry would know the moment Narcissa and I returned to the Manor." He sat at the very edge of the cell, his hands splayed on the floor in front of him, as though he wanted to stand up and walk out the door, but didn't quite dare. That was sensible, Draco thought. The ledge in front of him was narrow, and he didn't know how much practice Lucius had in walking more than the few paces his cell covered.

"Well," Draco conceded, "I'm giving it the title of home more by courtesy than anything else. But it's a place where you can recover, and rest, and be safe until we decide what to do next."

"Who did this?" Lucius looked up at him, and his eyes had a flash like the gleam from a diving hawk's beak in the blackness.

Draco didn't pretend to misunderstand him. He could have said that he and the rest of the revolutionaries had done it, of course they had, they were here, but Lucius would mean who was the motive power behind it, because he always did. He met Lucius's gaze and nodded a bit, as though to acknowledge something he'd previously said. "Potter."

Lucius's eyes closed in pain.

Draco shook his head, although it hardly mattered when his father wasn't looking at him, and murmured, "It's not like that. I don't serve him in the same way that you served _him_. I joined the revolution in the first place for you, to free you." He looked around to see if anyone else was standing near him. They weren't, but they were passing back and forth on the bridges, and this didn't seem like the right time to tell his father that had joined the revolution in the first place as a spy for the Ministry, rather than a whole-hearted soldier for Potter. "I promise, Father. I haven't surrendered to him."

"I fear for you," Lucius whispered. "At least I had never been obsessed with my lord, never _dreamed _of following him when I could not, never looked at him with my heart in my eyes and something like adoration on the day that he gave me back my wand."

Draco flinched. All those things were true. But he resented the implication that he had adored Potter, and he couldn't let his father go on believing it.

"He trusts me because I saved his life from an artifact the Ministry used on him," he said coldly. "And when all was said and done, the Ministry didn't even let me visit you. I came to him because he promised that he would raid Azkaban and free you. He's doing it. That's it, Father. That's all. I used him for you and for the sake of freeing my only remaining family. That's the only reason."

Lucius opened his eyes and looked up searchingly. Then he raised an arm. Draco wrapped a hand around it and urged his father to his feet, though he did wonder if the stiffness of the muscles conveyed rejection or only the bracing that Lucius had to do against the pull. He was very light. Draco repressed the temptation to count his father's ribs and instead met his gaze, awaiting his judgment.

"We will speak of this later," Lucius said.

Relief blew through Draco, but he contented himself with bowing, offering his father his arm again now that he was standing, and beginning the long escort of him across the bridge, to the stair where his mother was waiting for them with the light of hope in her eyes.

* * *

The dragons were flying in ovals by the time that the first procession of prisoners appeared, straggling across the island while leaning on the arms of his people. Harry exhaled hard in relief and then looked up. The nearest dragon was the Opal-eye, circling with his gaze sometimes on the ground below and sometimes on Harry. Harry could tell from the subtle pattern of his wings how good it would feel to burn.

Harry smiled at him and hissed through the wheel, _You can if you like._

The Opal-eye might have hesitated out of instinctive mistrust a few hours before, but not now. It breathed out joyously, and lances of fire stabbed down through the air towards the island, the prison, and the walking humans.

But they had to pass Harry first, and he reached out with his wild magic, a swirling force that cloaked his shoulders in red and gold, and grabbed them. He bent and reshaped the fire into ropes, as he had when he bound the guards, and shook them out from his fingers, from his shoulders, from points in the misty air where his power reached. Ropes dangled, and Harry moved them towards the dragons with a flick of his fingers. Ropes dangled now from all the other dragons he had summoned, and they gave small, surprised roars, turning their heads as though they expected them to simply fade.

_Do you see? _Harry told the Opal-eye, who was stirring the most against his control, its soul throwing off sparks. _You burned, and the burning is still here. It did not fade, the way that so much fire and beauty does after you create it._

That was a complex set of concepts, not one he would have tried to explain to a snake, and he wondered if the wheel or the dragons would struggle with it. For a moment, the Opal-eye paused with its tongue flickering out, and then bowed its head and accepted the message. The message passed down the line of swaying tails and horned heads.

Harry turned and guided the ends of the ropes down onto the island, altering their nature as they went, so that they burned only in color and became firmer and stronger.

He saw some of the prisoners start back and refuse to take them at first, but red hair blazed through the mist, and Ron and George would be down there, persuading them to climb. Harry smiled and half-closed his eyes, because he could watch the dragons better with his ears. He needed to know if one of them turned and started flying in a new direction, or attempted to take off with the fire-ropes on its body.

Ron would order people along, and they would obey, because of the calm strength in his voice. George would laugh and joke and perhaps stare at people, with that intensity that seemed to connote two pairs of eyes, until they got moving. Draco—

Harry shook his head. Draco wouldn't be ordering people along, because he only cared for his parents, and he would have them, exactly as he had wanted. Harry knew he would be standing near them, watching over them and challenging anyone, especially Catchers, to approach with the coldness of his eye.

He opened his eyes and looked down to see if he could spot a gleam of platinum hair, but either it was too exactly the color of the mist or he wasn't as used to looking for it as he was red hair, because he saw no sign. He shrugged and turned to check on the dragons again.

The stag made of lightning watched him from a spot in midair less than ten feet away, between Harry's dragon and the Hebridean Black that most of his other people had ridden. It stamped one hoof on the clouds when it saw him looking and began to move away, trotting in slow, exaggerated motions and glancing over its shoulder at him.

Harry turned his head away, and watched as Ron began to rise up the first of the robes that led to Harry's dragon with a woman following him whose hair was pure white and who wore tattered robes all in a uniform shade of gray. Harry could almost hear Ron's coaxing of her from here. She seemed to be healthy enough to climb, which Harry had to admit he was glad about. He hadn't been sure all the prisoners would be. Of course, he could command the dragons to land near the island so that the prisoners could climb up onto them if so, but it would have been more trouble than it was worth since they could climb.

A scuffle from the island caught his attention. Harry leaned down, squinting, and thought he made out the three-platinum-haired figures he had expected stepping aside from the others. Draco looked as if he had arms around both their shoulders.

"Why are we doing this with the ropes?" Draco's voice was faint and far away, but Harry could orient on that sound through greater distances than the one that separated them. "Why not Apparate them back to the manor?"

"Because that would take too long," someone else, who sounded like George, said. "Harry doesn't think he can control the dragons when they see prey vanishing from in front of them, not to mention that some of the prisoners don't need to know the Apparition coordinates. And you'd have to take down most of the wards around the island before you could do it."

"I am going to take my parents that way."

Harry called down before an argument could start. "Draco has my permission, as long as the only ones he Apparates are his parents."

George took a step back and tilted his head up, and although Harry couldn't make out his eyes very well from this height, he was sure that he could feel his disbelief. "This is _Lucius Malfoy, _Harry. Are you sure?"

"Who's spent the last seven years in prison," Harry said. "Who has paid for his crimes, and needs to rely on our help right now, since he doesn't have friends and he can't go to the Ministry. I think I'll take the chance, George."

George turned away without another word. Draco took the arm of the slighter figure, who was probably his mother, and whispered to her. A moment later, he began the long strokes of his wand in the air that would tear down the anti-Apparition wards around the island. Harry shrugged. It really didn't matter to him how they traveled, and it was possible Draco knew enough Dark spells to accomplish it quickly. Besides, once the wards were down, then he thought it likely that others would choose to be transported or to transport prisoners that way.

"You're going to pay for that decision, mate." Ron was beside him on the dragon now, assisting the white-haired woman to settle. Harry checked out the progress of other pairs on the ropes. All the dragons held steady so far, and the instructions to do so traveled up and down the line in the steady beating of their wings.

"Why?" Harry asked. "I'm sure there are lots of people who would probably rather travel by Apparition than dragonback."

Ron glanced at him, head on one side. "You don't know?"

Harry shook his head. "Is it because I disagreed with George in front of everybody? Is it because they don't trust the prisoners?"

"Some of those, although they don't really look up to George as a leader." Ron leaned in. "But because you gave Malfoy the ability to make the decision. The rest of them will start asking each other why you trust him, and they might reach the right conclusion."

"What's the right conclusion?" Harry looked unblinkingly into Ron's eyes, rather interested in the answer.

"That you care for him more than you should," Ron said, and looked back unaffected. The woman he'd brought up glanced between them both, her arms folded across her chest as she shivered. Harry sighed and cast a Warming Charm, then turned to smile at her. She didn't look reassured until he pulled back his hair and she could see his scar by the light of the charm on Ron's wand.

"They said that you were coming into the prison and torturing people, but I knew that couldn't be true," she whispered, reaching out and squeezing his hand hard enough to make Harry wince a bit. "You would never do something like that. You're still a hero, our hero."

Harry disengaged as soon as he could, with a few nonsense words that made her settle down with a smile. Then he turned back to Ron and shook his head. "We are going to discuss this," he said.

"Oh, I agree," Ron said, and tossed Harry a significant look before he climbed down the rope again. Harry was left to talk to the rescued prisoner and try to reassure her as best he could as he waited for the others to come up.

_Do I care for Draco more than I should? _

Harry shook his head. Impossible to answer that question, because it was impossible to say how much he _should _care for Draco. Did Ron think friendship was unacceptable but courtesy was fine? Or did he think friendship was acceptable and something else wasn't?

Harry gave a small shiver and then smiled. Surely he was the one who ought to set the boundaries, and Draco was the only other one who had any say in it.

The golden stag tried to catch his eye again, but Harry turned his head to survey the ground below, his mouth busy with reassurances, resolutely ignoring whatever strange magic wanted him to follow it into the night.

* * *

Draco couldn't bring down the anti-Apparition wards.

It had seemed such a simple plan when it first occurred to him. Why not take all the prisoners home that way? Of course, it would mean many journeys, but considering how long they had flown on the dragons to reach the island, Draco thought the total time wouldn't be much longer. And that way they could give the prisoners directly into the hands of people who could comfort them or cage them up, as was required.

He felt his spine stiffen as he thought about it. _No one is going to put my parents in a cage any longer, no matter what their intentions are._

But he couldn't bring down the wards. He could cut through one layer, but there was another beyond that, as if he was fighting his way through an enormous set of formal robes, all draped fabric above another swath of fabric. And when he turned and tested the air behind him, thinking that he might be able to cut a hole above his own small position if not the whole of the island, he found the wards he had cut regenerating from sparks of magic. The Ministry had hired experts to defend this place.

Panting, upset, red-faced, Draco slumped down on a rock and shook his head when his mother glanced at him. "We can't Apparate out."

"We must." That was his father. Lucius could walk on his own better than Narcissa could, but Draco thought he shared her uneasiness with so much space around him. He darted continual glances in most directions, and his hands continued to come up and rub his shoulders as if he didn't know what to do with them when he wasn't bumping into walls. "We must break free of Potter. You are going to take us to the Manor."

Draco swallowed back irritation. His parents couldn't know how much had changed in the past seven years, he reminded himself. That time must seem nightmare-like to them. "We can't do that, remember," he said. "The Ministry has wards and alarms on the Manor that would register our presence. The property really belongs to them, not us anymore. They only let me stay there on sufferance."

Lucius stared at him. "Why did you allow them to do this?" he asked. His mother caught Draco's arm with nails that still resembled claws, even after his Clipping Charm, and looked up at him with worried eyes.

"It wasn't a matter of allowing," Draco said. "They were stronger than I was, and we had no allies. It seemed better to yield and stay alive than wear myself out with fighting a useless battle." He watched with some irritation as the holes he had chopped in the wards all regrew their defenses. He took a deep breath and looked up at the dragons. He had declared that he was going to take his parents back to the manor with Apparition, and it seemed impossible to change his mind now.

"You have not yet learned the measure of strength that I expected from you," Lucius whispered.

Draco ignored that as best he could, and gamely lifted his wand for another attempt. Then he felt a presence at his elbow, and turned his head. Weasley stood there, the Weasley that Draco had saved earlier and who had boosted him up to his mother's cell, not the crazy inventor, watching him with large eyes.

"What?" Draco snapped.

"I don't think I can help you do it," Weasley said. "Not when the wards are already resisting you and those cutting spells I've never seen before." He gave Draco an oblique look, an invitation to explain, that Draco ignored entirely. Weasley sighed and continued. "But I can tell you that you can come back on that dragon, with your parents, and fly home with us, and no one is going to think less of you, Harry least of all."

"I defied him to his face," Draco said shortly. "He has to think less of me, at least in front of everyone else, or they're going to think less of _him_. He wouldn't risk losing his command over those people like Catchers because of me."

The smile that traveled slowly across Weasley's face was faint, but real. "What makes you think that Harry cares about that?" he asked. "What in _any _of his behavior has given you the impression that he's politically savvy?"

"Do not trust him," Lucius hissed from behind Draco. "There's nothing the Weasleys would like better than to destroy us."

Draco ignored him for the moment. Another thing that had changed that his parents couldn't understand. Then again, Draco wasn't sure that he understood it himself. "All right, granted," he said. "But—you can't tell me that you approve of the way he regards me and the license he allows me, Weasley."

Weasley rolled his eyes. "Of course I don't. But I would rather that he go mad over you than some of the other people I could mention." He shot a look in the direction of the rope that Draco thought Catchers was climbing. "And you—you need help getting them out of here. Come on, Malfoy. Up the ropes you go."

Draco swallowed. He had wanted to burn the world for his parents, burn even Potter for them, only half-an-hour ago. And now he was accepting help from Weasley, assurance from Weasley that ultimately originated in Potter, and proof of Potter's bizarre affection for him.

He didn't know where, exactly, he stood at the moment, and he hated that.

But he could also tell when he had to shut up and listen to advice, and this was one of those times. "All right," he said. "Help me, Weasley."

He soothed his feelings by making that an order, and Weasley satisfied his own sense of order by moving around so that he could take Narcissa's arm. She stared at him uncertainly, but he was still a pure-blood, which Draco knew satisfied _her _sense of propriety. Draco took his father's arm.

Lucius watched him with eyes that held something suspiciously like hatred.

Draco looked away.


	23. Dross and Slag

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-Three—Dross and Slag_

The moment came at last, when they were all on the dragons' backs and Harry could attend to the impulses that had begun to blossom and blow in him from shortly after his people went into Azkaban to rescue the prisoners.

They were here. They had saved the prisoners who had been held here, rightly or wrongly. They had abrogated the role of judgment to themselves, and if they wrong about that, then Harry would do his best to ensure that the price was a minimal one to everyone in the revolution as well as to the prisoners who were truly innocent. The guards, still bound in ropes of fire, had been floated by Ron and George and some of the other people Harry trusted most to the small outer islands around Azkaban, humps of spray-soaked stone in the water, and surrounded with protective wards.

Harry would have let Draco help with that task, too, if he wanted, but from the moment he came up onto the dragon, he had had eyes for nothing but his shaky mother and his staring, silent, hatred-laden father.

Harry was surprised to have to admit to himself that that hurt.

But it wasn't as important as other things were right now, so Harry shoved the notion out of his head and told it to take a flying leap. He lifted his head and turned his mind back to happier things. "Hang tight," he told those behind him, and lifted his voice to shout the same warning to those riding on the other Hebridean Black.

Catchers muttered something uncomplimentary. Harry ignored him. When they were back at the manor, then Catchers could choose to desert, if he wanted, but he was hardly going to do it when they were all stranded together on a dragon's back high in the air.

"Now," he told the wheel in a whirl of Parseltongue, and watched the whirl spin and spread through the dragons, altering the pattern of their wings, changing the pattern of fire that he had burned before their eyes.

They responded. Heads turned towards Harry. Eyes like massive jewels and like fireballs and like openings into darkness shone at him. Harry nodded, and then laughed aloud. He knew that some of the people behind him, even Ron, were staring at him, but he had no care for that. He had no words for the weird, wild, nameless joy that leaped in him.

Perhaps it was because the dragons were creatures of fire and, at some base level, deeper down than even the Parseltongue affinity that bound Harry to them as reptiles, Harry understood them. His wild magic made him a creature of fire, too.

And the dragons began to turn.

The lances stabbed downwards from their mouths again, and this time, Harry made utterly no attempt to arrest them, to spin them into ropes or ladders or anything else. So the flames fell almost gently, and touched the prison.

Azkaban lit like a torch. Harry sucked in his breath in awe, and then coughed as it stung his chest. However much of a creature of fire he was, it still wasn't easy for him to breathe superheated air.

The walls began to melt. Stone crept across the island in undulating waves of lava. For a moment, Harry thought there was no difference between land and water except the colors. He was breathing harshly again, but this time, not because of the air. He could have swallowed smoke then and done so gladly, for the joy of the char.

One fountain of sparks leaped into the air from near the back of the island, where the Opal-eye had moved. Harry laughed again, and imagined the magma, the molten stone, creeping into the innards of the prison, into the cells where some of these prisoners had spent so long gradually dying. His gladness bounded inside him, and expanded. He wished that he had wings of his own, that he had fiery breath, that he could join the dragons in the destruction they wrought.

_No_.

Someone seemed to sigh the word directly into his head, but when Harry looked around, there was no one there. He shook his head. Perhaps some affinity from the dragons was speaking to him, reminding him that, no matter how much he might wish it, he wasn't a dragon and shouldn't want to be one, because who would control this group then and ensure that they backed off at the right time?

So, reluctantly, he pulled back from the fantasy that had nearly consumed him, of blasting his own magic into the mess of fire and volcanoes beneath him, and instead watched as the prison was torn apart, the wards fracturing, the shapes of the walls melting and warping and flowing until they looked as though they had been natural sculptures of magma for as long as the island stood. He realized that he was breathing more deeply than he needed to, and shook his head with a faint smile. Maybe that was another reason he could respond so well to the dragons; he had something of the same streak of destruction in him.

"Mate? Are you all right?"

Harry glanced over his shoulder when Ron touched him in the middle of his back. Ron's eyes were huge, and Harry realized that nearly everyone on the dragon was sitting bolt upright and staring at him with the same expression, as though they thought he would change into a dragon himself any minute.

Except Draco, who was still occupied with his parents.

_Seven years of imprisonment, _Harry reminded himself, lowering his eyes in shame over the vague jealousy that stirred in him. _Remember that he never got to see them. Ever. _He nodded. "Yes. I'm going to let the dragons who aren't carrying us go now. Hold me."

"What do you mean?" Ron asked, with a weak little laugh. "If they decided to turn on you, I don't think I could stop them."

Harry reached back and squeezed Ron's hand in his until he could hear the pop and creak of tendons. "It's okay," he said softly. "I just want you to act as an anchor, someone who can touch me and remind me of which way 'up' is when I need it."

"Right," Ron said, exhaling on a soft sigh, and his fingers dug into Harry's waist. Harry looked down at the wheel and touched the eye in the middle, closing his own eyes as he imagined the patterns of fire falling apart from the few dragons—the Fireball and one of the Hebrideans—who hadn't been needed to carry the prisoners.

_Go on now, _he told them. _I take the knowledge of my soul back from you. Go, be free, hunt and burn elsewhere._

They roared back at him as his mind touched them, and then turned and fled. Harry suspected that his ability to reach out to them, once he had removed the artificial pull the wheel created, probably reminded them too much of the way that Dragon-Keepers would try to captivate them. The dragons carrying passengers stirred restlessly, and the wind stirred by their wings acquired a wail at the edge of it.

_You cannot go yet, _Harry thought, and then said aloud in Parseltongue. The wheel spun faithfully, and the dragons settled back. Harry stitched the fire of his soul between his fingers one more time, in case he needed it yet, and then, finally, touched the dragon he rode on the neck and turned it back around.

Clouds were moving in. Lightning danced among them, and Harry saw the shape of slender legs, lifted antlers, the narrow eyes focused in disapproval.

He ignored them. Whatever the lightning stag was—if not simply a manifestation of his wild magic or a hallucination—he had responsibilities to his people that precluded him dealing with it.

* * *

_It was there. You saw it!_

George took a long drink of Firewhisky and shook his head. "I don't know what I saw, Fred. It was late and I'm tired."

_You know what I saw. I was looking, and if you were too tired to use your eyes, then you should just give them to me. _

"I can't give them to you, you can't use them from inside there," George said reasonably, and drank the Firewhisky again. Then he leaned back so he could see out the window of their bedroom, which wasn't enchanted like most of the windows in the manor, but actually stared at the trees and wards that surrounded the house and let them know what the time really was. George was more insistent than Fred about knowing the proper time. He'd been responsible for most of the Wheezes that relied on timed effects to work.

Almost dawn, at least if the grey line growing along the horizon was any indication. George shook his head in wonder and thought about going to bed. Among other advantages, his twin rarely spoke to him in dreams, so going to sleep meant that he wouldn't have to listen to Fred's ridiculous theories.

But…

It was the end of a long day—and night—since they'd got back and settled the prisoners from Azkaban in the cleared and empty rooms of the manor not even an hour ago. But George didn't think it had gone on long enough. He was too tired to sleep, too excited to breathe. Too weary to do anything but sit here and drink, really.

_That'll leave you with a hangover, _Fred complained. _And it's my skull, too._

"Shut up, you can't feel physical pain the same way," George muttered, knowing he was being childish, and took another drink. But that left him at a disadvantage, since Fred didn't need their physical mouth to complain.

_You saw it as well as I did. That's what's been driving and shifting around all the times that our Harry's used his magic. The lightning, the force, the _something out there. _His wild magic is connected to it._

"Is not," George retorted, the moment he'd swallowed. "And anyway, lightning doesn't necessarily mean anything. What are you going to say, that Harry randomly has the power to call storms now? He'd have had one to cover us on the approach to Azkaban, if that was the case."

_We don't know what it means—yet. _Fred's voice sank, hushed, which was a pretty good trick for someone who only spoke inside George's head. _You know that something else is out there, something that wants our Harry. It'll hold him, seize him if it can. He's connected to—_

And then Fred ran out of words, which left room for George to snort rudely. "Exactly. What in the _world _do you think he'd be connected to? He got rid of Voldemort, he's freed himself from the Ministry, and his wild magic is _his _wild magic, not given to him by something else. He hasn't even made any deals with demons or magical creatures lately. We'd know, because it would have affected the way we built the wheel. There you go again, Fred, thinking that just because you were more impatient to get out of Mum you have more ideas about the way the world actually works."

_I know it's something, _Fred said, but his voice had sunk even more, to a murmur that George could ignore if he wanted to. He never would, of course. He'd had enough of the ignoring in the few days between the time that Fred died and the time that he found his twin again. _I just don't know the right name for it yet._

"Let me know when you do," George suggested, and then proceeded to drown both raging fear and roaring excitement by getting absolutely _pissed._

* * *

Draco's parents had rooms not far from his. Draco had wanted to bring them into his quarters at first, had assumed without thought that he would do that and everything would be fine, but Potter had looked at him once and shaken his head.

"The locks aren't strong enough," he'd said.

Lucius had looked at Draco and mouthed, _See? He's trying to separate us already._

Draco had turned away and not answered, because he wasn't sure who he wanted to unleash the rage gathering in him at, his father or Potter.

It helped that his mother was there, too. She had said nothing, but stepped between the arguing men and leaned against Draco. Draco put his arm around her, and both Potter's and Lucius's faces softened as they looked at her. Not the same kind of softness, thank Merlin, or Draco might have worried about having to duel Potter for his mother's honor.

"All right," Potter said, scraping one hand through his hair as though he was trying to scalp himself. "All right. You can have rooms not far down the corridor, and that'll have to do." But he turned and met Draco's eyes with a trace of the softness that Narcissa had inspired still in them, and Draco thought he might have yielded if Draco had pushed.

He didn't try, not now. He was still dealing with Azkaban and the knowledge that his father hated him for not pushing as far as Lucius surely would have if he'd been free in the last seven years and the moments he'd shared with Weasley on the island and the sight of the prison walls melting and—and everything. He lowered his head and nodded, and Potter went away to tend to the other prisoners.

These rooms held what seemed to be the standard furniture abandoned by the manor's previous owners, Draco thought: a heavy four-poster bed, a window, a few cabinets—all empty of any precious objects—a few chairs and an empty cupboard. A door on the far wall led to a bathroom, but it had been sealed up, and Potter had said that his parents would have to use the one down the corridor. On an intellectual level, Draco understood. Potter and Weasley and whoever else commanded here—or might after tonight, if the schism that Draco thought was coming between Potter's minions grew to the full—didn't want prisoners able to barricade themselves in an inner room.

On an emotional level, it made Draco's rage burn hotter than before, and turned it against Potter.

"I can't believe we're here."

That was Narcissa's soft whisper, and Draco took a deep breath and reminded himself that he couldn't do anything about securing his parents better quarters for tonight. That would have to wait until Potter distrusted him less, or his parents less, or something between the two. He leaned forwards and placed a soft kiss on his mother's cheek. "I know," he said softly. "Do you need—do you need me to shrink the bed? Bind the curtains in tighter, so it's more like a cell?" Of course he was the only one who could do that in the room right now, since his parents had been stripped of their wands when they first went to Azkaban and not granted new ones.

In fact, Draco realized, the notion striking him like a blow, he wasn't sure what was going to happen with that, even assuming that Potter decided some of the prisoners were well enough to fight for the revolution. They couldn't share wands without becoming disorganized and ineffective in battle. Did he intend to bribe Ollivander to sell or make wands for the people who fought under him?

Draco grimaced. If that was the case, he didn't think much of his parents' chances of getting wands, since it was their house Ollivander had been held prisoner in during the war.

"No." His mother shook her head, and drew his attention back to her. It was a strange thing, Draco thought. He had assumed that, once he got his parents back, his every thought would be of them, his every desire to tend to their wounds. But instead, he kept darting off into his own head, and they had to strive to secure his care.

That was horrible of him, even if his reception by his father wasn't everything he had dreamed of. Draco smiled at Narcissa and knelt down beside her, kissing her hands. "What can I do for you?"

"Be with me," Narcissa told him soundlessly, and pulled her hands free from his so that she could touch his cheeks. Her fingers felt cool, Draco thought, and he wondered if she carried the chill of the prison or if it was his face that burned. "Stay with me. Talk with me. Tell me what you've done in the past seven years."

Her voice rose as a question on the last words, and Draco nodded back to her. "Yes, it is seven," he said quietly. "A long time to be without you." His tears were stinging his eyes now, and he would have let them fall if he was alone with his mother; she seemed to be staring at him in wonder, not hatred. But his father was in the same room, and he would despise them for weakness, Draco knew.

"Draco, we must make a plan to escape from here."

Lucius. Draco sighed, and admitted, to himself, that he had not missed his father's imperious manner. He turned around and shook his head. "How are you going to do that, Father?" he asked, keeping to sheer practicalities of the situation. If Lucius only wanted to admit that those existed, then that was what Draco would do. It was a small enough sacrifice, after all, given all that his father had suffered and endured. "You're surrounded by Potter's people, many of whom hate you. You have no wand. We have nowhere the go. The Ministry would return you to prison, and they've taken over the Manor's wards. What would you have me do, other than what we've done?"

There was a charged silence when he finished. Draco hadn't realized his loud his voice was going to be until he heard it. Narcissa rose to her feet, looking back and forth between them. Her lips were pale.

"Lucius," she murmured, and Draco didn't know if she was going to chide or comfort him.

"No, Narcissa." Lucius's eyes burned, and he took a step forwards. Draco kept himself from reaching for his wand, but it was an effort. "I want to know what our son has made of himself. It's been seven years, he said. But in all that time, he accomplished nothing except to sell the Manor to our enemies? He never came to rescue us? He never found any source of power except the one that Potter represents?"

_Not the reunion I imagined. _Draco didn't scrub his hand across his mouth, a nervous habit he had developed since his parents went to Azkaban, because Lucius would see it, correctly, as another sign of weakness. He inclined his head to his father, never taking his eyes from Lucius's face. "Listen, Father," he said. "You need to understand the political realities of the situation."

"I understand the intimate realities first," Lucius said, and Draco had heard words from the Dark Lord's mouth that sounded less poisonous than the ones he heard next. "I understand that our son has given up on the Malfoy legacy, and we should have had another heir."

Narcissa's fingers tightened on Lucius's arm until it seemed as if she was holding onto him to keep from falling. Draco looked at her face, and wondered if she would speak up and contradict Lucius.

He didn't know. After all, she had elected to go to prison for her husband rather than try and stay out, for her son.

"Tell me," Draco said, and he almost didn't recognize the chill, casual tone with which the words slid from his mouth, "how in the world would you have arranged that, from inside the cell that you're so sure couldn't hold you? How would you have acted differently from me, if I was the one imprisoned? _Do _tell me, Father. I'm dying to know."

"Draco," his mother said uncertainly, and then shut her mouth and looked away. Perhaps she was calculating the same odds he was, Draco thought, although he kept his eyes on Lucius's face, that she would actually stand up for him, when so far she had spent more time and effort choosing her husband's part.

"I would have managed," Lucius said. "I would have used my contacts in the Ministry to ensure that they never imprisoned us, that we retained the Manor. I would have had my wand, and managed with judicious use of Imperius and other control spells. I would have used the money in bribes."

"Even if they took it all?" Draco asked. "The way they _did._" His throat was burning as if he'd swallowed sand.

"I would have found a way," Lucius said. "I am surprised that you did not go to my contacts and beg for our freedom." His face was filled with conflicting and dashing impulses that surfaced like ripples in his stormy eyes, and Draco wondered if he was weighing the necessity of freedom against the horrible idea that a Malfoy of any kind would beg.

"I asked everyone I knew," Draco said. "They all told me nothing could be done. And as for bribes and political experience and the rest of it…Father. I was eighteen years old."

"I would have done differently," Lucius said, and leaned forwards as if he was going to walk over to Draco and strangle him. Draco knew that look too well, having seen it on most of the Ministry flunkies who attended at his home at one point or another. "I would have done _better._"

"Then you are welcome to," Draco said. "Do you want me to walk away? Do you want me to cease assisting you? I can. It doesn't mean that you'll succeed, but it does mean that you'll be treated like the other prisoners who were Death Eaters—given little to no privacy and probably some mistreatment on the sly. Of course, Potter tries to prevent such things, but that's no guarantee that you'll survive. Do you want that, Father? I can give it to you."

Narcissa closed her eyes and shuddered as if she was back in prison. Draco paused, felt his nostrils flare, and then managed to say carefully, "I wouldn't abandon you, Mother, unless you want to go with Father."

_The way you always do, _he nearly said, and then didn't say.

Lucius stared at him as if extra toughness from Draco was not what he had expected. Then he shook his head. "The world cannot have changed so much that you would abandon family, Draco."

Draco smiled. He had the feeling that his mouth was full of blood, or should have been, but he didn't want to spit. It would give his father too much credit for angering him. "I'm not abandoning you if I walk away because you want me to, am I? And that's what I'm asking. Do you want me to leave you?"

Narcissa huddled nearer and whispered to his father, "He is right. They would consume us, Lucius. There is nothing we can do but accept the offer that Draco has generously made us and hope—hope that it is enough." She swallowed hard.

His father said nothing, but stood there, and all the beasts of the desert were sleeping in his eyes. Draco glared back. No, not the reunion he had imagined, but then, he had already changed from the boy who sat in his house for seven years, dreaming of his parents and the day they would come home and everything would be perfect. Perhaps it was time to acknowledge that.

"I want your help," Lucius said.

Draco nodded curtly. "Very well." He went about strengthening the protective spells on the rooms. No one had told him that that wasn't allowed, and if Potter found it unnecessary or wanted to get through them, Draco had no doubts about his ability to do so.

Lucius's eyes burned on his back. Draco ignored them without as much effort as he had thought it would take.

_I've changed._

_ And I don't even know if I can blame Potter for that much._


	24. Schisms

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-Four—Schisms_

"I need to talk to you, Potter."

Harry glanced up from his book with a surprised little blink. Catchers stood in the doorway of his room, and Harry didn't remember inviting him in, past the protective spells that he'd strengthened since the incident with the shadow hounds.

Then he remembered, and grimaced a bit. _Oh, yes. We discussed the prisoners for most of last night, and I never got around to putting the protective spells back up. _

"Come in," he said, and scooted his chair back from the table as if that would make him look more welcoming. They both knew that it didn't really work, and Harry wondered, as Catchers came into the room, whether that pretense of friendliness had annoyed him more than it helped.

"You don't know what you're doing," Catchers told him, not even bothering to shut the door. Harry reached out and did it with a little flick of his wand. Catchers tensed, his eyes flickering back and forth between the table and the closed door, and Harry sighed. No matter what he did, he thought, the man would distrust him. It was better to at least keep the conversation private.

"In regards to the rebellion?" Harry asked. "I know that I haven't paid as much attention to it as I should have because of the unrealistic way that I was thinking. I was hoping that you might agree to help me recover from that mistake."

Catchers gave a funny little laugh and held his hands together as if he were clutching a rope that stretched in front of him. "Not that," he said. "This has gone beyond that, and become something else."

"Well, what, then?" Harry had had quite enough of cryptic riddles and mysterious clues back when he was fighting Voldemort. He still loved Dumbledore, but when he thought about him, he sometimes wanted to slap the man for relying on mysterious hints for as much as he had. "The rebellion is the only thing you and I have in common."

"You raided Azkaban," Catchers said, and then paused and stood there, staring at him.

Harry laughed, because he couldn't help himself. "I had noticed, yes," he added, when Catchers continued to stare at him.

"You raided it with dragons," Catchers whispered. "And you insisted that we take out all the prisoners as well as the guards before you'd do it."

"Are you suggesting that I should have burned them to death?" Harry flicked his wand again, and the door opened behind Catchers, who jumped like a cat seeing a full bathtub. "If you really mean that seriously, then I don't think we have anything more to say to each other."

"I _mean_," Catchers said, as if the words had broken past some barrier in himself, and he was now speaking fast and aggressively, glaring at Harry as if this was his fault, "that you were an Auror. Like me. Sworn to uphold justice. Like me. I thought you were serving the cause of justice when you burned Minister Duplais and then went on the run. And it turns out that you have no idea what you're doing, that you're going to let all the criminals go even if they're guilty, that you have no grand plan."

"I never had one of those," Harry said. "You can ask the people who knew me in school. What matters is that I wanted to stop the Ministry from arresting Muggleborns just because they were accused by pure-bloods and letting pure-bloods go because they had enough money to pay for mercy. That's all."

"But you let them _all _out," Catchers whispered. "The guilty as well as the innocent. I don't understand."

"Do you think they should have stayed there?" Harry asked, a trifle impatiently, because once again this was starting to sound mysterious to him. "Any conviction made under the current Wizengamot, or at least under Minister Duplais, is suspect. Do you think that we were supposed to leave the pure-bloods there and only take the Muggleborns? What?"

Catchers shook his head. "You have no idea what I want."

"No, I don't," Harry said sharply. "And that's the problem." He gestured to the open door. "Feel free to leave if you don't want to talk to me."

"I would, if there weren't more people depending on me." Catchers's eyes flashed at him. "But I promised them, I _promised _them, that I would stand up to you." He braced himself as though against an invisible wind and held up his head. "The problem is that you're appointing yourself judge and jury. You're acting like Minister Duplais, as if you have the right to judge them."

"Other people are going to help," Harry said slowly, wondering if Catchers had missed that. "They're going to make sure that we go over the cases slowly, and we can try to make sure that we get the right records from the Ministry, if we can have people there steal them for us. Some of the families of the people who have joined the rebellion or who've stayed out of it so far might do that, because it would mean their relatives going free."

"You're taking on a role that only the Ministry can take on," Catchers said hoarsely. "It's one thing to change things, but I always assumed that we would go back to the Ministry in the end, that this was only temporary."

"Is that what you thought?" Harry couldn't help the way his voice gentled, the way his eyes met Catchers's as he thought of the disappointment he'd seen on the other man's face often in the past few days. "No. Things can't ever be the same. The Ministry would have to change some laws anyway, but I can't go back. I don't think they would have me as an Auror. No one would ever trust me again."

"Then leave a way open for the rest of us," Catchers said. "A place. You must be able to do that, as powerful as you are, unless you intend to bring the Ministry down completely."

Harry shook his head. "I don't understand you. At one point you accuse me of wanting too much power, at another point you say that I have to have the power to convince the Minister and her cronies to take you back. Make up your mind."

"You were supposed to be the hero," Catchers said, his cheeks flushing, and his breath coming faster, and if the barriers had been shattered before, Harry suspected they were coming down in flaming pieces now. "The one who made his decisions for noble reasons, who never let personal interest get in the way. But now, _now_, I learn that you decided to raid Azkaban because one man begged you to. A man you want to fuck."

"Oh, you mean Draco," Harry said. He thought about it, and then added, "Not that I really want to fuck him, but he's the only one you could mean. And I didn't do it because he asked me. We had that plan ready long before. George is good, but not even he can manufacture something like that wheel in two days."

"But the tipping point was when Malfoy asked you," Catchers said, and studied him with a look of loathing so wide and bright that it finally told Harry what he was dealing with here: a twisted crush, a bad case of hero-worship. "You wouldn't have done it just then if not for him. He can _compel _you to do things."

"If words were that powerful," Harry said gently, "you would have made a difference in the way I go about things just by talking to me. And no, I didn't do it because he asked. I was happy to know that he'd be able to free his parents that way, yes. That's not the same thing."

Catchers shook his head, but Harry overrode him, confident he could prove his point. "Now that Draco's parents are free, he'll spend his time with them, helping them, instead of dancing attendance on me. If I wanted his attention, or his loyalty, then helping him free them wasn't a smart move, was it?"

"He'll owe you a debt," Catchers muttered, but he sounded doubtful for the first time.

Harry shook his head and smiled at him. "Draco's above that. And above sleeping with me for any other reason than because he wants to."

* * *

_Would I? How well you don't know me, Potter._

Draco stood outside Potter's door, his hand half-raised to knock. Then he had realized the door was ajar, instead of fully closed—something that tended to happen with the half-arsed versions of spells that some people used when they were distracted. It was the most natural thing in the world to lean on the wall, fold his arms in case someone came along and he needed a mask of boredom for them, and listen.

Catchers's words were amusing, and depressing. Draco had been sure that Potter would lose control of the revolution sooner or later, and from his responses, he didn't realize that he was in danger of doing exactly that.

_Potter doesn't see power dynamics. He wants to deal with people as individuals only, not what they represent. _Draco shook his head. _I don't know if anyone could have saved him from crashing into this problem._

The sharp tone of Catchers's responses told Draco something else, though. Potter might not realize it, might think that it was only a case of Catchers being disappointed that a cause he'd risked his life and career for wasn't worthy, but in reality, he wanted to fuck Potter as badly as Potter probably wanted to fuck Draco.

Draco stood there and felt a distant stretch of feeling, a prickling, tingling sensation, as though muscles he'd had asleep for years were waking up and stretching again. He chuckled to himself and shook his head.

The last emotion he would have expected to feel on hearing this conversation was jealousy. Or interest, for that matter. Potter was right. For seven years, he had dreamed of his parents being free, and the way that he would wrap himself up in them and be consumed, because that was what he wanted, _all _he wanted.

Of course, that was when he had thought his father would understand that years had passed outside the prison, instead of declaring that Draco was no fit son of his because he hadn't done everything perfectly. Draco could understand power dynamics, but that meant little without the power to manipulate them.

_If Potter and I were true allies, with his strength and my insight, then…_

But Draco let the dream drift away. He doubted that his dreams of revenge against the Ministry would intrigue Potter.

"You speak to him," Catchers was saying, voice rusty. "Talk to him, and he'll tell you that he wants to sleep with you."

"He might say that if there was some advantage to be found in it," Potter said peacefully. "But I told you. Now that he has his parents back, I highly doubt that he'll think of me again." His voice was flat on the last words, and Draco couldn't tell if regret was among the emotions that Potter was crushing down.

"You're impossible," Catchers said, soft as a prayer. "Why did I ever think that I could trust you? That you could lead us to victory?"

"I don't know," Potter said. "I suspect that everyone has a different reason for being here. I thought I knew what yours was, but you've told me I don't." There was a little light regret in his voice now, as though he was wondering about the person Catchers might have been. _Your lover, if you would let him, _Draco answered in his head. "Go away, if that's what you want. Some of the others might go with you."

"You think that you can fight the revolution all by yourself?" There was an unattractive sound that was probably Catchers scoffing, or perhaps spitting. Draco hoped not. Potter would probably let the spittle sit in the middle of the floor, becoming a huge, stagnant pool that would attract mosquitoes and other nuisances. "Without our strength behind you, who would support you and tend your precious prisoners and help you judge them?"

"I would do it myself, if I had to," Potter said. "But I know that others will stay. Ron. George. Draco, if only for his parents."

"A slender support system," Catchers sneered.

"But mine."

Draco wished he dared to lean forwards and look around the door, but from what he had seen before, Potter's table faced it and so Potter would probably spot him. He could envision the scene, though: Catchers staring at Potter in dawning rage, Potter looked back with faint impatience, his fingers laced together in front of him.

Catchers didn't understand, no more than Draco had at first. He had changed Potter's attitude about being the only one to take risks—Potter had stayed behind on the dragons without protest, after all, instead of insisting that he go first in the charge to rescue the prisoners—but Potter would still struggle on no matter how many or how few were left with him. That was the driving determination that men like Catchers were attracted to because they thought they could tame it. They would become more and more disappointed as the years passed and it always flamed ahead of them, never caught, never bridled.

Potter's revolution might fail. But he wouldn't give in to political demands that people made like threats. Draco now thought that Potter valued him so much because he had spoken Potter's own language, without realizing it: courage and respect.

_And the saving of lives. I wonder if he would love his Weasley friends as much if they had stayed safely behind the lines instead of helping him during the war._

"You don't know what you've done," Catchers said, apparently deciding the time had come to return to vague generalities. "There are plenty of others who would follow me, and betray you to the Ministry."

"Oh," Potter said quietly, even as Draco flinched in sheer reaction and backed away from the slightly open door.

Catchers uttered a low moan. Draco hadn't heard any sound from within the room, no incantation from Potter or signs that he had pulled his wand, but he could smell the stink of wild magic, thick and free, with salt like the ocean in it. He pictured Catchers pinned against the wall, or with his fingers suddenly severed, or his foot burned off. Potter might have done any and all of those in his drive to protect those loyal to him.

"Not fighting for me is one thing," Potter said, and it was terrifying how calm his voice was. "I can respect that, and I can't force you to go against your principles without becoming what I'm trying to fight. But if you hurt anyone else, if you tell the Ministry about this manor or about Draco or about our secrets, then I will do this to you again. Do you like the pain? Do you understand it? Because you'll suffer it, without being allowed to die. My magic won't let you, even if _I_ am gone."

Catchers gasped several times, and somewhere in there must have been an affirmation Draco didn't hear, because Potter snorted, and there was the sound of a limp body hitting the floor. "Good. Then get out of here."

Draco cast a Disillusionment Charm over himself, but he doubted that Catchers would have noticed him if he hadn't done it. The man walked past with his lips bloodied and his face utterly white. He tried to turn around for one defiant glare as he reached the corner, but he couldn't manage it. He bowed his head and fled.

"Ah, Draco. There you are. How much did you overhear?"

Potter was standing in his doorway, looking the same as he always did—vague eyes with a fire behind them, a handsome face carved with lines of weariness, his body loose and buzzing with the resonance of his magic. But his eyes were focused on Draco even beneath the Disillusionment Charm. Draco hadn't had a chance to get used to that before Potter abruptly gestured at him and shook his head.

"My magic tells me that you're there, as usual," he said. "You don't have to worry that you'd suddenly be visible to anyone else. Like Catchers," he added, with a faint smile that Draco could imagine easily becoming piercing.

Draco nodded and dismissed the spell, since it wasn't doing him any good. "Do you have a few moments to speak?" he asked.

"Is it about your parents?" Potter tilted his head as though examining the wall above Draco, where an invisible calendar might hang, for all he knew. Then he nodded. "All right, but if you're going to ask me to trust them with wands, then I'm afraid I'll just have to say no and send you on your way."

"Afraid?" Draco asked, following Potter into his room and making sure to close the door firmly behind them so that someone else couldn't eavesdrop the way he had done. Potter whirled around when he heard the click, and his gaze was so intense that Draco had to turn his head to the side. But he made sure to keep his general perceptions focused on Potter, so that he would know where he was at all times.

"Afraid, because I wouldn't like to deny you much," Potter said.

And there it was, the thrumming tension between them that Draco had half come to encourage and half feared. He licked his lips and asked, "Does your magic tell you things about other people the way it does me?"

"Not much," Potter said. "You're the only common one."

Draco half-closed his eyes. He needed to know the limit of this power as soon as possible, because when his father found out about it, Lucius would urge him to use it. Draco needed to be able to tell him no if necessary. "I—I don't know what you feel about me, Potter," he said. "You escorted me to the prison so that I could free my parents, but they weren't the only ones you freed. I saved your life, but I'm not the only one who's done that, either, in the past."

He sensed that Potter was smiling, and once again he couldn't look at him directly. "That's true," Potter said. "But you're different from Ron and my other friends."

"How's that?" Draco's voice shook. He ground his teeth and faced Potter, determined that no matter what happened, his father wouldn't be able to condemn him as a coward and be right about it.

Potter watched him with those shining eyes that Draco found fascinating and frightening at the same time. "I want you more," he said simply, as if such declarations were made between former enemies every day.

Draco hesitated. Here was where he had wanted to be when he came to the rebellion: in a position of power and influence over Potter. And he hadn't had to work to seduce him, either; Potter had decided that he wanted Draco without "help" from anything but life-saving. Draco hadn't had to employ lingering looks and touches, sighs, or rumors.

That made him distrust what was happening.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because you're undivided," Potter said.

Draco blinked. That couldn't mean what it sounded like, when he was split in his loyalty to Potter over his parents, and Potter would be wise enough to know that if not how deep the division went.

"You have a goal," Potter said, "and you stick to it. You wanted your parents out of Azkaban. You tried again and again throughout the seven years since the war to gain access to them, didn't you? Some of the people who joined us were clerks in the Ministry who processed your applications for visits. They remember. And since you joined the rebellion, you've tried to keep me alive, even though you don't like me much personally, because you knew that I might be able to help you." Potter laughed softly. "Then you would have Apparated back if you could, because you were afraid of what might happen to your parents on the backs of the dragons, or that they wouldn't like the ride. Draco, you're loyal. You're steadfast. If you doubt me, it's not because I'm failing to live up to some standard of perfection that you want to see me fulfill. It's purely and simply because I'm getting in the way of your goal."

Draco wanted to laugh hysterically, but his dry throat prevented him. _If he only knew the doubts I'm having now about my father and my relationship with him, he wouldn't say that._

On the other hand, Draco wasn't so great a fool as to confess that. He did make a half-hearted protest, his mind on Weasley. "Surely your closest friends don't expect you to be a hero in the way that Catchers does."

"No, but they expect me to be their friend," Potter said quietly. "The same irresponsible, reckless boy I was in school, always coming out of it in the end by some brilliant but impossible twist of luck. I can't do that anymore. I have more power than I did then, and I have more responsibility. Ron is worried about me. I'm glad that he is. But he doesn't know what to do with me. You do." He smiled at Draco. "Shift me out of the way if I don't help you reach your goal, use me if I do."

"That is _such _a strange reason to want someone," Draco couldn't help saying.

"I know," Potter said, still as quietly as though he was expecting someone to break in on them. "But it's the way I feel. And it's not as though I expect you to want me back," he added, his voice suddenly younger again and more like the Potter that Draco had thought he knew. "I mean—I know that it's not—you probably can't want me anyway, since you're so focused on your parents. That's what I admire about you. But there it is." He straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath. "What you ask of me, I'll do, within reason. I can give your parents different quarters and stronger protection spells. I've already had to strengthen a few on the other rooms. Some of the rebels who feel the same way that Catchers does were going to sneak in and hurt them."

Draco clenched his fists in front of him. Intolerable, to think of that happening, when he had faced down and fought so many dangers, including ones inside his own skull, to get his parents back.

Of course, who could say that he would keep them?

"I'd like—the stronger protective spells." He moved forwards, unsure where he was stepping, aware only that his heart was beating so hard that it made his steps shake. "And I'd like something else."

"Yes?" Potter cocked his head, apparently unaware of what Draco wanted, though for most other people Draco's closeness and the way he was moving would be clues in and of themselves.

When Draco kissed him, his mouth was warm and dry, then wet a moment later as it fell open in wonder. Draco raised a hand to clutch at the back of Potter's neck, and only then did Potter respond, with a strength that made Draco feel as if he was dying.

They kissed for several moments, until Draco had had enough for now and stepped away. His heart was beating hard enough to hurt, his breath coming shallowly. He didn't know yet what he would do with this new connection to Potter. But he had seized the chance to strengthen it while he had it, and that couldn't be a bad thing.

Potter shook his head, seemingly feeling as dazed as Draco did. Then he smiled helplessly at him.

And in that smile, Draco could see the seeds of why this might not be such a good idea, after all.


	25. Ripping Apart

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-Five-Ripping Apart_

"You know what Catchers is saying about you."

Harry nodded, and tried not to yawn into his bowl of cereal. He'd spent most of the day arranging the interrogations that were going to take place over the next week or so, and the questions that would be asked at them. They had Veritaserum, and it seemed stupid to waste the chance. Harry, Ron, and someone else who the rest of the revolution trusted would ask the prisoners what they had been accused of, what they had really done, and whether they felt any hostile impulses or would attempt to escape now. Harry had decided that, in the end, that was simpler than attempting to figure out the vast network of stories, rumors, and lies that would have spread among the prisoners and the members of the revolution who had been former Aurors or closely interested in the trials.

"That I'm not a good leader," he mumbled, when he realized that Ron was still looking closely at him. "That I'm deciding too much, and not listening to the people who follow me. Maybe that you would be a better one."

Ron dropped his fork. It rang loudly in the hall, and the other people eating there turned around and stared at them, then turned hastily away when Harry looked back at them in some interest. Ron picked it up again and shook his head at him.

"How did you know that?" he asked.

"Because Catchers came and talked to me yesterday." Harry yawned again. "Was it yesterday? It must be, because I slept most of the afternoon and into the night," he mumbled. When Ron glared at him, he sighed and described the conversation.

"If he's doing that, then he's threatening you," Ron said sharply, looking as if he wanted to bristle. "I'll make sure that he understands he won't have a place among us if he does that."

"Not so much threats as attempts to make me back down," Harry said.

"Which _are _threats-"

"What do you think the rest are going to say," Harry asked, lowering his voice, "if you go in there and tell them that you find it unacceptable that someone says harsh things to me?"

Ron opened his mouth, then shut it again and shook his head. "They'll see me as coming from you," he muttered unhappily. "Someone they can't trust anymore, because I'm on the exact same side."

Harry nodded and reached across the table, squeezing his hand. "Whatever happens, they have to be able to trust you. If a lot of people want to stay but won't accept me as leader, then they'll still have you. If some people split off from us but are still yearning back, they might talk to you where they won't talk to me. And you're our war leader and strategist. We still need you."

"I don't know about strategist anymore, considering what you did with the dragons."

Harry shrugged. "That was something we can't do again, because now the Ministry is alert and waiting for us to use dragons. A one-time, special stroke of genius doesn't mean that I can make more."

"I think you can." Ron's eyes were intense. "If you start paying more attention to what they're doing instead of just your own thoughts, or what Malfoy's doing."

Harry blinked. "What does Draco have to do with it?" He hadn't told Ron about his talk with Draco, although he had mentioned that Draco had overheard Harry's conversation with Catchers and could provide an independent witness if Catchers grew too belligerent.

Ron snorted. "_Draco_. You don't even call Catchers, who you'd worked with and who you were so confident would join us, by his first name, but _Draco _only has to save your life once and it's the first name with him."

"You know why," Harry said, and met Ron's eyes, confident that Ron would know what he meant but be too embarrassed to name it outright.

Sure enough, Ron glanced away a minute longer. "Fine," he mumbled. "But the attention you pay to him is going to be one of our biggest sources of controversy, and I don't want you to exaggerate it."

"_Exaggerate _it?" Harry felt a flicker of fire along the side of his arm, and suppressed it. That hadn't happened since he gained better control of his wild magic, which meant since he burned Duplais. "What do you mean?" His voice had risen, too, and once again he could feel people staring at him. Well, they were already staring, but now they looked as if they were at the point where they might intervene. Harry shook his head and cooled himself down with a sharp breath.

"I mean," Ron said, "that you listen to his opinion, and ask him questions, and laugh when he makes jokes, and stare at him with these adoring eyes. And you let him do what he wanted, trying to Apparate his parents away from Azkaban, even though you would have rejected the suggestion if anyone else made it."

"Not if you did."

"I wouldn't have made it," Ron said sharply. "I could sense how strong the wards were. But you-let down your guard for him, and act like you're in love with him. Yes, you do," he added, probably because he could see the protest coming in Harry's eyes. "I don't like it."

"If I want him," Harry said, "would that be so bad? It would stop me from being so alone, and it might help some of the people who are afraid of me see me as human after all."

Ron made a noise like a frustrated camel. "You don't understand it, Harry. Sure, if you started sleeping with someone else, that might work. But not him. He's too different. He doesn't want the same things they want. He's already getting away with too much. Give him more, and they'll just have more reasons to resent him."

Harry lowered his eyes to the table. He wanted to explain that it wasn't like that at all, that Draco was nobler than Ron gave him credit for...

But that was only his impression. And getting his impressions across hadn't been something he was good at so far.

"Fine," he muttered. "Then I won't mention that he'll get any special privileges, and I'll try to be more cool and guarded around him in public. That doesn't mean it'll make any difference, the same way that I don't think the attempt to reconcile these warring factions will really make any difference. There are too many people determined to hate me for not fulfilling their dreams."

"You don't know that." Ron had leaned back in his chair and regarded him with more approval. "You can at least do what's necessary and give them a chance to voice their objections."

"Or walk away," Harry said, thinking of the buried light in Catchers's eyes, the way his hands had tightened at his sides as though he would punch someone. "I think that'll be the choice for the larger number of them."

"You're underestimating your own appeal," Ron said confidently, and drank the last of his tea, rising to his feet to deliver a heavy slap to Harry's shoulder. "You'll see. I work with plenty of people who feel that the revolution is the most important thing, not their personal desires."

_Then that means it's more important than me, too, _Harry thought, and settled back in his seat to consider how he would approach this. He might have made too many mistakes. It might be too late to retrieve them.

But he would try.

* * *

"Explain this, Father." Draco heard the distant dryness of his own voice, and wondered where he had learned that. It didn't resemble the way that Lucius had sometimes spoken to him, and it wasn't a voice he had used in the last seven years when he thought of nothing but bringing his parents home. How could he know it? All of what he knew, other people had taught him.

_I might need to change my mind on that, then._

Draco shook his head and focused on the bathroom in front of him again. Water swam across the tiles. The walls were splattered with stains of soap and foam. The bath looked as though something with enormous claws had run through it, carving sections of it out. The towels Draco had intended to last his parents for at least a week now dangled in shreds.

"I need not explain it," Lucius said, with an expression that reminded Draco of nothing so much as a spoiled child's. "Once, you would have understood me without words."

"Once, yes, but we've established that I've changed and you haven't," Draco said dryly. Lucius didn't take that for the irony it was, instead looking at him with pity. "Tell me why."

"This was not worthy of a Malfoy," Lucius said, with a grand wave of his hand. "Towels of rough cloth. Water that ran too cold. Walls in a bland pattern. You will need to move us to a better prison now."

Draco turned and glanced at his mother. She shut her eyes and turned her head away. Draco couldn't tell what she was feeling from her expression, the way he thought he might once have been able to. Sometimes she seemed ashamed, sometimes upset, sometimes determined to stay on Lucius's side no matter what.

And sometimes he thought that she was still too tired from her time in Azkaban to show much emotion at all.

Draco raised and flicked his wand. A simple Cleaning Charm banished the stains and the ragged strips of towels. Then he Vanished the water and cast a _Reparo _on the bath, making the missing sections rise from the dustbin where Lucius had flung them and reattach themselves. Draco Summoned a few more towels and hung them in the place of the originals, then faced his father.

"It must have taken you hours to do this much, with the crude tools available to you," he said quietly. "I repaired it with my wand in under a minute. Who do you think has the real power here? Who do you think can give you what you want? You can't get it by demanding it."

His father stood very still. Then he shook his head, and a smile appeared on his face that Draco didn't understand at all.

"I taught you to take what you want, and use power against other people where you found it," Lucius whispered. "Other people was never meant to include _me_."

Draco held himself back from responding. Part of the problem was that he didn't know if this was prison defining Lucius or if he really _had _been that blind, so certain that Draco would never feel anything different from him. Perhaps prison had stripped the subtlety away from Lucius, but not the sanity, leaving him as a thinner, more pared-down version of himself.

He glanced at his mother and made his voice gentle. "Do you need anything else, Mother?"

Narcissa shook her head, keeping her eyes on the floor.

Draco turned back, and that was when his father leaped on him and tried to take his wand.

Draco rolled to the side without thinking, drawing on the fight training that he had spied on and practiced by himself, since there was no way he could ask Weasley to teach him. The roll drove him into the wall and made his breath _whuff _out of his lungs, but it broke Lucius's grip on his hand, and he took a step back, shaking his head as he tried to recover his balance.

Draco used the respite to perform a Body-Bind. Lucius's eyes widened in fury as he toppled over. Draco made no attempt to catch him, although his father's head bounced dangerously near the tiled floor of the bathroom. Draco took a step forwards and knelt down so that he could stare at him.

Lucius snarled a curse and thrashed one foot back and forth. The Body-Bind was fading already, then. Draco wasn't surprised. It took him a lot to use magic against his parents, which meant his will didn't have much strength behind it.

"Father," he said, and was surprised by how calm and reasonable his voice sounded. _Is that really me? _"You know that no one else here will let you have a wand or let you out of your prison. And you can't manage to fight your way free when only you, and not Mother, would have a wand." He paused, considered what Lucius had said and implied so far, and then added slowly, "Did you intend to leave her behind?"

"He wouldn't," Narcissa said, and then clenched her lips down over her teeth. Draco glanced at her invitingly, but she stared at the far wall rather than responding. Draco sighed and returned his attention to his father, casting a Body-Bind strong enough this time that Lucius's foot stopped moving.

"Did you, Father?" he asked. Then he realized Lucius couldn't nod or speak, and released the spell's hold on his head. "A simple answer is all I require."

"You are not the son I raised," Lucius said, the glitter in his eyes as sharp as agates.

"Of course I'm not," Draco said. "The son you raised was in constant subjection to you, and I had seven years of being without it." _Strange to consider them as years of freedom instead of loneliness. _

He intensified the spell on his father and shepherded his parents back across the corridor into their rooms, where he strengthened the locking spells on the door. Lucius watched with so much impotent rage worked into his face that Draco had to wonder if it was hereditary, if he had looked like that when the Ministry officials who controlled the Manor came to the house. If so, he hoped that none of them remembered.

"You'll stay here," Draco said. "I'll have to tell Potter about this and explain the situation. Someone will notice my magic in the bathroom, and probably some of the damage." He didn't think he had done enough to repair it; he had never been that good at household cleaning charms. There simply wasn't enough reason or energy to repair and dust most of the Manor with his parents and his elves gone.

"Why would your Potter assume that the best thing for us after seven years of confinement is _more _confinement?" his mother whispered, voice thin and thready.

Draco shook his head. "All the prisoners are suffering this, Mother. Some of you are innocent, some of you are dangerous, and some aren't. But we have to sort through all the people we rescued before we can make that determination. And some people would think that you should stay caged up no matter what we found under the Veritaserum," he had to add. "My testimony might not do you much good, either. I'll have to ask Potter about that."

_Potter will vouch for them if I ask him to._

But Draco was not sure he should depend on that help, particularly when he and his parents might end up having to leave the revolution suddenly.

"Typical, of course," his father said, drawing a cloak of dignity close about him the way he probably would have tried to do if he was standing on his feet. He succeeded better than Draco thought he could have, lying on the floor like that. "You rescue us, but have no coherent plan and no position of strength from which to bargain."

"I have one that the Ministry never allowed me," Draco said, and turned away.

"What is that?" Lucius sneered at his back. Of course he sneered, Draco thought. He seemed to know no other expression, and not to realize, as Draco was only now beginning to, how much it limited him.

"I have the ability to change my mind and revise my priorities," Draco said quietly, and shut the door behind him.

* * *

The confrontation happened as Harry was walking down the wide corridor that led to the interrogation rooms. It seemed natural, but Harry was sure it had been carefully staged, especially because so many of the people gathered around Catchers looked steadfast and determined, not uncertain.

Catchers halted in front of him and looked him up and down as though he found something offensive in the manner of Harry's dress. He probably did, Harry thought, holding his own impatience at bay as he looked back. Catchers was wearing his old Auror robes, and they had obviously been dusted and cleaned until the threads began to fray. He held his wand in one hand as though he would use it to emphasize his points. Harry hoped he didn't. There were too many people who would take it as a threat to him and leap into the fray.

"These are the charges I bring against you, Mr. Potter," he said, as though to remind Harry that the Ministry had sacked him and so he didn't merit the Auror title anymore. "First, you are too concerned about your own private research and not enough about the revolution."

Harry nodded. "I think I probably deserve that one."

Catchers's mouth tightened, and he shook his head at Harry. "Did I say that you could talk?"

Harry smiled a bit. "Did I say that I cared about your accusations?"

Catchers wisely went on to the next one, probably understanding that he couldn't pull too much out of Harry with that one. "Second, you care too much about Draco Malfoy. You let him defy your orders without consequence, while you would order anyone else who did so to stand down."

"How do you know that?" Harry asked, beginning to enjoy this in a twisted sort of way. Catchers had obviously planned for the sort of victim who stood back and bowed his head meekly as the accusations flowed over him, rather than one who answered back and questioned some of his terms. He _looked _great, he didn't sound so good.

"What?" Catchers stared at him. "Good Merlin, man, it's obvious. Everyone heard Malfoy's question on the island, and everyone heard the permission you gave him-"

Harry shook his head. "No, I meant, did you have any examples of me ordering someone else who questioned my authority to stand down? If not, then your first accusation contradicts the second one. That would mean that I'm openly listening to debate and questioning from the people who follow me, and that would mean that I'm engaging more with the revolution than you think I am."

Catchers frowned. "You haven't been as open with us as you should be, and you haven't listened to our opinions when you were speaking of crazy plans like raiding Azkaban. The moment you decided to do it, it _was _decided, without listening to the pleas and plans of others."

"No one objected until the end," Harry said, "except the ones who didn't want to come along. And I notice that some of them have already left." It had taken only a few glances around the manor that morning to confirm it, as it had taken those glances to confirm that far fewer had gone than he thought. "You decided to come along despite thinking that it was an ill-advised plan. Why?"

"Someone had to speak up for those you were neglecting and ignoring." Catchers folded his arms and looked ridiculously puffed-up and regal. "I cannot say that I find what you did much different from what I envisioned. The miracle was that we made it out of the conflict without losing anyone."

"All right," Harry said. "How would you have conducted the raid?"

"I wouldn't have," Catchers said. "We had no need to free most of those in Azkaban. We should have taken only the Muggleborn prisoners and no more." The people behind him nodded and murmured.

"Then what would you have done instead?" Harry asked. "This revolution started because I hated the Ministry's justice system. So we attack the end product of that justice system, and make sure that they can't use the most notorious prison ever built anymore. What would you do in my place?"

"Something else," Catchers said, and his voice ground now. Harry didn't think he had planned sufficiently for this aspect of the conversation, either.

"Tell me what." Harry folded his arms in return and gave him a pleasant, patient smile.

"I would need time to plan, time to consult with my advisors and decide on the best course-"

"Then what you have," Harry said, "is dissatisfaction with the way I run things, but no coherent goals to suggest in its place. I should have realized. Why do the hard work of coming up with ideas?"

Catchers looked at him for a brief moment with his heart in his eyes. Harry shrugged back. Yes, he wished this could have gone differently as much as Catchers did, but since Catchers only thought it would have gone better if Harry had listened to him and dated him, he couldn't much regret losing the man's loyalty.

"You _don't _listen to us," said someone near the back of the crowd. "We didn't want to free Death Eaters, but you made us-"

"Yes!" someone else called out. "I don't want to stay in the same house as convicted Death Eaters-"

"I know that I don't want murderers near me, either!"

A rising murmur of agreement started out, and Catchers smiled tightly at Harry. He obviously thought he had won.

"Then you can leave," Harry said.

Catchers's smile vanished. The voices of the others died, although Harry had only spoken the truth, and not in a loud tone. Harry turned so that he could see all of them, his eyes steady. He had never felt so certain of something, never wanted to express truth more than he did now, or felt more able to express it.

"I won't keep you here," he said. "I'll send you away. You can go back to your homes, or fight the Ministry on your own, doing whatever you think needs to be done to render us free and save the wizarding world. And it means that you can even escape from a house where there are convicted murderers, as well as other people who've committed worse crimes. Why would I want to keep you here?"

"You'll lose the war without us," said an uncertain voice, sounding like the first one who had complained.

"Probably," Harry said. "But holding you captive would be even worse, and I don't think that you can contribute much to the war effort while you're this way. You say that I don't engage with the revolution, but you aren't engaging with me, either. And you don't have productive ideas that can take the place of the ones I have. The best solution is to have two rebellions."

Catchers took a single step forwards, then stopped. He caught Harry's eye and mouthed silently, _I'm never going to have you?_

Harry shook his head slightly, and said nothing.

Catchers turned away with a gesture that might have been a nod, except that it was too faint, and started speaking to his followers. The words were full of fire and thunder and doom, and Harry didn't bother listening. He went on his way to the interrogations, his body no more a weight than his breath.

He had done the only thing he could. And he didn't know how many people would leave, but he didn't think it would be as many as Catchers had counted on following him.

They were going. It would make things harder. But he would resist the temptation to simply close down the revolution because someone else wanted him to. And that included Catchers as well as the Ministry.

He would keep going. No matter what it cost.


	26. On Wings of News

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-Six-On Wings of News_

_Memo from the desk of Minister Clearwater to Head Auror Summers: _

Rumors are spreading of the fall of Azkaban and the escape of the prisoners. Find some way to deny the rumors, or to harness the panic usefully.

_Memo from the desk of Judith Summers to Minister Clearwater: _

I believe that your new asset is most usefully put on that. She knows Potter, she understands the way he thinks, and she has already shown that she is skilled at disseminating rumors.

_Memo from the desk of Minister Clearwater to Judith Summers:_

For reasons that do not need explaining at this juncture, she will be unavailable. Put a team in the Auror Department on it.

_From the lead article of the _Daily Prophet, _A NEW THREAT FROM DRAGONS? _

...As most of our readers will know by now, Azkaban has fallen, its prisoners freed to create a new reign of terror throughout the land. There are rumors that dragonfire was used in the attack, as it would be the only substance that could reliably melt the rock of the walls. Of course, as no Ministry official will permit our intrepid reporters onto the island, there is no way of confirming this.

Dragon-Keepers across Britain are refusing to comment, despite the rumors that also say a flight of dragons was seen leaving each reserve.

"That many dragons being loose would cause far more havoc than the destruction of a single building," says Rolf Scamander, son of the respected Magizoologist Newt Scamander. The younger Scamander has some experience in attempting to breed dragons himself and replicate his father's successes, and he was eager to talk to our reporters. He is a tall young man with flyaway dark hair and believable, bright blue eyes who gestures as he speaks. "That's the thing about dragons, y'see. They can't be _controlled. _It's perhaps the case that a single rogue Dragon-Keeper has allied with Potter and somehow managed to bring along a beast-a big male in the throes of rut, I reckon-who burned the building to the ground because of a glamour that made him think it was a rival male. But this business about a flight of dragons is nonsense."

Nonsense? Maybe so. But with the Ministry buttoned tight and quashing the natural process of gossip without releasing clear information to quell the rumors, we will have to see how long it remains that way.

_Owl received by the Minister from a mysterious location, bearing marks of a spell to change handwriting: _

Minister Clearwater, you need not be frightened or alarmed by this "revolution" that Potter is stirring. There is a reason that it will fail, and it has nothing to do with the character of those who have followed Potter or the way that the Ministry interacts with our society. It is Potter himself who will cause this rebellion to falter, and then to fall apart.

If you need more proof of my knowing what others might not know, recall the artifacts taken from the Unspeakables, and ask yourself again what they might represent.

_From a _Daily Prophet _article with the byline "Aenigma": _

...Following are photographs of and excerpts from several books that were in the Ministry's possession. All concern the Dark Arts, specifically necromancy, and should shed some light on what exactly Harry Potter was rebelling against. Several contain notes in the hand of the late Minister Duplais, reproduced in the photographs...

_From a pamphlet bearing the byline "Hermione Granger," distributed by the Ministry two days after the fall of Azkaban: _

IS HARRY POTTER YOU-KNOW-WHO?

Many have fears that Harry Potter might have inherited several interesting powers when You-Know-Who died. There are multiple witnesses to the fact that he spoke to a snake in his second year, and as his mother was Muggleborn and his Potter ancestors had no trace of Slytherin blood, speculation as to where he might have inherited _that _particular gift can only lead to one source.

Now we have _**NEW**_ information concerning Potter's strange powers! He was seen flying without a broom on more than a few nights, crossing to Azkaban that way-a power also demonstrated by You-Know-Who before his death! He tortured prisoners with the Dark Mark, indicating that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named lives on in Potter and takes out his disappointment and revenge on his failed followers! Potter was also seen with a huge snake draped around him, which might be the snake 'Nagini' who was said to accompany You-Know-Who, and whose fate has never been successfully accounted for!

What powers _do _you think he has? Does our world face a new threat of resurgence from the Darkest of Dark Lords? The Ministry needs your advice! Contact us!

_Placards found around the necks of convicted Death Eaters, minus Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, and several convicted murderers, Dark wizards, and thieves, deposited bound, gagged, and unconscious at the doorstep of the Ministry two days after the release of the Granger pamphlet: _

Here, these are the guilty ones. They confessed under Veritaserum that they did what the Ministry said they did, and we're satisfied that they won't give us promises not to escape and would be more trouble than they were worth to keep. Take them back and guard them better this time. -H. P.

_From a _Quibbler _article on the deposited prisoners, by Luna Lovegood: _

...Truly, I have to wonder about anyone who can question Potter's motives now. He does not have the same methods of fighting for truth and justice that he did when he was an Auror. Then again, the Ministry sacked him, so he's just obliging them by not acting the same way that an Auror would. It makes one sentence of what they've said true.

_Letter from an unknown source to the _Daily Prophet, _containing photographs of the deposited prisoners and the placards: _

This is no reason to trust him, you realize. But the Ministry will doubtless arrest more innocents in the future, and we applaud Potter's resolution to find and free them-as long as he burns down no more prisons. There is no reason to destroy structures that matter to the wizarding community.

_Memo from Minister Clearwater to all members of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement: _

Stall. Damage control. _Now._

_From a _Daily Prophet _article on the prisoners left at the Ministry door, interview with Auror Kenneth Malvorn: _

KM: Obviously, I think that leaving the prisoners for us like this only shows that Auror-excuse me, old habits die hard-_Mr. _Potter is more dangerous than ever.

Interviewer: Why? This seems to show that Mr. Potter still holds onto Ministry ideals of truth and justice, and suggests that, perhaps, he could be brought around to reason, if the reasoner was persistent enough.

KM (smile): Pardon me, Mrs. Opal, but you don't know very much about the way the Aurors work. We require _respect _from our members above all, something that we teach our trainees as their very first lesson. We work in a hierarchy, after all, and we can't have some random trainee deciding that she doesn't want to work with a certain partner, or that he'll change the routine because it interferes with the drinking that he wants to do the night before. So we teach them to respect their partners, their instructors, the rules of the Ministry, and the rules of arresting suspects. That's very important, obviously-we have to have suspects treated justly even if we _know _that they're guilty of the crimes they've been arrested for-

Interviewer: But how is this applicable to Mr. Potter's situation? It does seem to show that he has some respect for the Ministry rules of justice, if he leaves some of those the Ministry has judged as guilty in front of its doors, and makes sure they cannot easily escape.

KM (stiffly): Please, Mrs. Opal, refrain from interrupting me.

Interviewer: I'm sorry. Please proceed.

KM: This has _everything _to do with the way that Mr. Potter is going about his rebellion. He parodies the rules that he spent so much time learning, along with every other Auror-although, if you ask me, he always got away with more than the rest of us because of his face and his name, and how bad it would look to have the Ministry treating him like an ordinary Auror.

Interviewer: That's odd. I would assume that they would go out of their way to avoid treating him _differently, _because that could have led to accusations of favoritism.

KM: Not so odd when you think about the way that we tend to work. Of course the more absurd suggestions were shot down-I believe someone, perhaps former Minister Shacklebolt, suggested that Potter be admitted to the Aurors without having taken his NEWTS, which is plainly nonsense-but that very respect for rules means that some Aurors _do _dream of defying them and doing other things sometimes. Someone who can leap over all the complicated procedures of tracking and questioning suspects and constructing an air-tight trap for a Dark wizard, someone who simply went after him and faced him down in single combat...you could see how that would be very attractive to a certain type of person. Who hasn't dreamed about being the maverick Hero once in a while?

Interviewer: And you think that influenced the way people treated Potter?

KM: Oh, of course. We couldn't _help, _sometimes, respecting and admiring him more than was his due. He'd been so young when he defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, it was impossible not to dream of what he could achieve when he was older and acting properly within the rules. Who would have thought that we were harboring a revolutionary on our hands?

Interviewer: Do you remember treating him in any unusual way, Auror Malvorn?

KM: There were a few times when I was instructing him that I accepted answers from him I shouldn't have. Oh, they didn't really fulfill the question or the assignment that I'd given him, but they were so [deleted] _creative._

Interviewer: It sounds as though you admire him still, Auror.

KM: Ah...of course, I'm sorry to see so much potential wasted. But Potter never fit within the rules the way he should have. The Ministry is really better off without him.

Interviewer: Would you have preferred that he hadn't delivered these Death Eaters back into custody, then?

KM: Oh, we're happy to have them back, no question. But you're missing the most important point, Mrs. Opal. _He _is the one who took up the task of judging them, as if to say that we weren't good enough. And he didn't return everyone. That's the most important fact that I feel has been overlooked in this case. Where are Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy? If Potter is serious about wanting to get back on good terms with us and remand the freed Azkaban prisoners to custody, then he should have included them in his delivery.

_Memo from Minister Gillian Clearwater to Head Auror Judith Summers: _

Make sure that Kenneth doesn't given any more interviews to the press. The last one was a disaster. I'm sure it's generated _more _sympathy for Potter than already existed!

_Owl from Head Auror Summers to Minister Clearwater: _

Are you sure, Madam Clearwater? I've had several people tell me that they now understand the Potter problem better than they did, and it's largely due to K.'s skills in showing what's wrong with his brand of "justice."

_Memo from Minister Clearwater to Head Auror Summers: _

I'm sure. There are reasons involved that you don't need to know at this time, and I'm preparing someone to speak who will be a much better witness against Potter than all of the others we have produced so far.

_Letter from Ron Weasley to Hermione Granger: _

Hermione, you haven't communicated with us in far too long. Are you all right? Harry wants to know about the fall of Azkaban and what the Ministry thinks of it, of course, but I want to know about _you. _Tell me if you're all right. Tell me whether you're healthy, sleeping well at night, getting along with the Minister and the Aurors...

Harry might laugh at me for asking about something so trivial, but it's important to me. Or he might not laugh at me. I think he has someone in his life who he wants to ask those questions about. I'm just not comfortable with _who _it is.

But write me back, please, Hermione. We need to know about all sorts of things, and you're at the heart of most of them.

Love,

_Ron._

_Letter from Harry Potter to Hermione Granger: _

Do what you need to do. I know Ron would be happy to hear from you, but I reckon there's some reason that you haven't contacted us, and I know how dangerous the life you lead is. Do what you need to do, and do it as soon as you can.

There's someone close to me now that Ron sometimes acts like he trusts and sometimes acts like he doesn't approve of. I would be happy to have your opinion, but not if it compromises you.

Love,

_Harry._

_From George Weasley's experimental notes for the week after the Azkaban raid: _

That doesn't work. Stop being ridiculous. I can't build a cage that big.

Lightning means what?

I know, Fred. _I know. _That doesn't mean that we can talk to him about that. But we _can _build this, and make it unusable by anyone other than him. At the same time, it'll channel his power in certain ways, and if you're right, it'll reveal a connection between him and something stronger or wider or faster or however you want to phrase it.

Okay, so I left one word off the list. Doesn't _matter. _I'll call these things Harry is supposedly connected to "greater" if you want me to. Doesn't matter.

Now, back to the cage. And lightning. Lightning is a cousin of fire, right? And sometimes I think our Harry is all fire.

_Second owl received by the Minister from a mysterious location, bearing marks of a spell to change handwriting: _

I don't resent you asking for proof, although you had to do it from associates of mine rather than ask me directly. How could you when you don't know where or who I am?

Recall this, since you were once an Auror (and still act like one on your best days). Remember that we sometimes saw criminals do something on a scene to deliberately cover their tracks. In a vengeance murder, they might take something from the house, so as to make us think that their _main _motive was the gold or the crystal or the spellbooks and killing was a secondary one. I did the same thing with the artifacts I removed from the Unspeakables. One of them is important, and I know how to use it. I knew what it _must _be when I studied it in more detail, and the reports of the Aurors who originally discovered it. The others are cover only. You can be assured that I will not use any of them against the Ministry.

But it is important that you not commit any of your forces to a grand battle against Potter's. You will fail, because the flaw in him that will cause the rebellion to fall apart will not manifest itself until a crucial moment. A _single, _crucial moment. That is bound to come, and which I will be able to ascertain with greater certainty with more study.

You ought to know what I am talking about, now, if you have paid attention to history, and reports, and superstition, and legend.

_Letter from Hermione Granger to Ron Weasley, carried by Hector the post-pigeon: _

There are reasons that I haven't contacted you. You might say that I've been rethinking my life and the way I go about things. You might say that I've been rethinking my ideals. All of those would be true.

But they aren't the main reason.

The main reason is that I've endured too much, Ron, and I'll ask you to give up these pathetic attempts to write to me. You're professing a love that never existed. You were the one who chose to follow Potter into danger, instead of choosing me and remaining with the Ministry. You were loyal to your best friend instead of your wife. What kind of marriage is that?

It's a wrestling contest.

It took me a long time to admit this to myself. We've been good friends for so long. We quested and fought beside each other. But even then, you were always looking to Harry for orders, weren't you? When you left us in the middle of the hunt, you didn't invite me to come with you. You just _went_. You abandoned Potter _and _me. That says a lot about how important I am to you.

There's a corner of my mind that doubts.

You are nothing more than an overgrown child, Ron Weasley, and I hope that you won't be surprised if divorce papers appear on an owl for you someday. The only reason I haven't done it so far is that it would take up too much of my time, and I'd have to search old memories and old photographs for some of the evidence I'd need, and that would stir up emotions I have no reason to live through.

The Ministry can't find out.

Go back to your Potter lover-he's your lover by now, isn't he? all those little awkward references in your letters don't fool me-and your vigilante justice and forget me, a better woman then you'll ever deserve.

Don't back down.

_Hermione_.

_From George Weasley's experimental notes a fortnight after the Azkaban raid: _

Lightning is a form of fire, but I don't think you can use it that way.

Why not? Harry's done all sorts of things with fire that we didn't think he could do. Ropes. Ladders. Gags. Commanding dragons. You don't command dragons, things like that aren't done.

A cage? Not the best idea? Something more open, something for the lightning to flow through and awaken?

_Awaken? _Have you been hitting up the Firewhisky again?

Only get what comes in through your mouth, remember? Not that that's anything but rubbish, these days.

Bloody ha-ha. We'll turn to something other than the cage.

_Letter from Harry Potter to Hermione Granger: _

All right. We understand your feelings, or we did after a careful reading. We'll make sure that you have what you need from us, which is distance right now.

Never give up the struggle.

Love,

_Harry._

_From the private diary of Minister Gillian Clearwater:_

...The war becomes more confusing each day. Now the press is baying on our trail, saying that we should have guarded Azkaban more carefully, asking how something like this could happen? As if attacks from impossibly controlled and organized flights of dragons happen every day!

Our attempts to control the damage seem to make it worse. Auror Malvorn has resigned because of the mockery he received as a result of the interview, and yet the _Daily Prophet _keeps hounding him for a repeat performance. Of course, poor, unguarded words sell papers. I hope he does not give in. He could say more damaging things now that he is no longer part of the Ministry, with our reputation to protect.

I have received letters from at least two disparate sources. One seems to be an organized group, commenting on my handling of the war from a perspective that seems to imply they have a better plan. Of course, Merlin forbid that they tell me what this plan is or how to implement it.

The other is mocking, and from the thief who stole the Unspeakables' artifacts. The hints dropped are presumably meant to coalesce into a larger picture, but I refuse to allow myself to lose sleep over it. The hints most likely mean nothing, and while the thief was talented enough to enter the wards and take the treasures lost, that does not correspond to a tactical brain that can teach me how to win the war.

I wish someone else was Minister. I wish someone else was handling this.

But because that is not happening, I must rely on my wits and my oath to protect the wizarding world. Luckily, I have another trick up my sleeve to try.

_From a _Quibbler _article discussing the Ministry's "antics" in response to the deposited prisoners: _

...And another attack on our press was made in the early hours of this morning. Your devoted editor escaped with nothing more than a slight nick on the shoulder. When will the Ministry learn that they cannot take from us more than we wish to give?

_Letter from an unknown source to the Minister, arriving in the early hours of the morning: _

We know what you meant with your attack on Luna Lovegood. We will not tolerate such measures. Your spy has been found and thwarted.

_Third owl received by the Minister from a mysterious location, bearing marks of a spell to change handwriting:_

You felt it last night, didn't you? You must have. The shifting thunderstorms, the brewing lightning, the magic moving closer to the earth. And yet you make no effort to prepare for it, as you should, by luring Potter into a trap and allowing the flaw that lies at the center of his character to take over.

Perhaps my hints have been too mysterious. The artifact I refer to that the Unspeakables stole and hid away, and which I simply stole back from them, is the book. When one opens it in the right way, it records the prophecies that were thought to have been destroyed by Potter in 1996.

Why would anyone assume that such valuable things were housed in one place only? It is profitable for the Department of Mysteries to make believe that such things are true, of course. But as Minister, someone should have told you the truth.

There is another prophecy concerning Potter. And it says nothing about a rebellion. He is being pulled away from our mortal world towards other things, greater things. Forces of magic that we have no name for because no wizard has ever wielded them, wildness that becomes tameness in its own way. Natural disasters sometimes cross our paths and damage or destroy us, but there is no malice in them, only coincidence. That is what Potter is growing towards. His wild magic is too extreme for any wizard to wield and survive, otherwise. It was granted to him in the first place because it was never meant to affect the world he is a part of.

Take heart, Minister. He will soon be gone, and without him, the rebellion will fall apart.

You would do well, of course, to make sure that the Ministry is poised to take advantage of picking up the pieces.

_Letter from Ron Weasley to Hermione Granger: _

All right. Harry's explained it to me, focusing on those specific paragraphs, and I think he's right. But that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

But I want you to stay safe, and to know that I love you at the same time. If that means that you need to wrestle the demons in your own mind for awhile, without hearing from me, all right. I might not even send this letter. I just wanted to write it down and get it out there.

But there's one thing I want to put down because it's _true _and I can't keep it locked up in my head all the time, and I can't tell Harry the way I can tell him I still love you.

If it turns out that Harry's suspicions are right and the Minister did this to you...

I'm going to kill her.


	27. Listening to Advice

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-Seven-Listening to Advice_

"If anyone has a good idea for what kind of raid or battle move we should conduct next, I'm open."

Harry leaned back in his seat and watched the people assembled around the table. They stared back at him in turn, or stared at their laps, or whispered to their friends, or watched the antics of the others with amusement. Catchers and his followers weren't among them, having left a few days before, when it had turned out that Harry _wasn't _going to return people who declared themselves innocent under Veritaserum to the Ministry.

Harry wondered why, sometimes. Why was that the definitive breaking moment, rather than the raid on Azkaban that freed the prisoners in the first place? Did they doubt that Veritaserum worked on everyone, or were they stubbornly committed to the idea that the Ministry had tried them for a "good reason"?

But he suspected that those questions were only distractions for himself. He knew the real reason. He'd tried Narcissa Malfoy with the Veritaserum, and she had turned out innocent of all but a few spells cast in defense of her family, as Harry had known she would. Lucius had come next.

And he had said that he was guilty of Muggle-baiting, two murders, and a desire to escape as soon as possible. Yet Harry hadn't given him up.

Draco had sworn an oath to guarantee Lucius's good behavior, and that was why. Of all the others, the Death Eaters and non-Death Eaters Harry had given back to the Ministry, he could find no one else willing to do that, even for the ones who had some relatives among members of the revolution.

When he accepted Draco's oath and reached out to help him off his knees, Catchers had risen from his seat in the amphitheater, glared at Harry with a heavy weight of meaning behind his eyes, and then turned away. Almost everyone who had been behind him in the corridor when he questioned Harry followed. They hadn't come back, and their rooms had been cleared out.

Harry had heard the mutters that followed that, the significant looks exchanged when no one thought he would notice, and the distrustful and wary expressions people had when he called them to this meeting, here in the eating hall. Well, he had made mistakes. He could admit that and throw open the meeting to suggestions, as he had promised.

But having promised that he would accept Draco's oath for his father, he couldn't take back his sworn word, and he couldn't let Catchers get away with the threat that he'd made to betray Harry to the Ministry. He waited now instead, hands folded behind his head, watching everything from the way Ron bit the inside of his mouth to the bland expression on Draco's face as he sat at the other end of the table. A few people had objected to him being here, but since Harry had pointed out that Draco had simply sworn to pay with his life if Lucius escaped or harmed anyone, not sworn to stay locked up with him, the mutters had died. They were trying to compensate with evil glares instead.

The glares would make no difference to Draco, Harry thought with admiration. He had endured things far worse, including most of a decade without his parents. He sat there now and let the words of others fall off him like water. He looked at Harry most of the time, but sometimes paid attention to Ron.

_Single-hearted. _Harry wished that he could be. He had numerous small concerns pulling at him like puppies of a large litter: keeping his promise to Draco, finding some way to make up for his mistakes, conducting the revolution well, handling the prisoners who could be redeemed, guarding his back against enemies, and managing his wild magic. Draco only had to worry about his parents, and any threats that came against him because of them.

Harry banished the distracting thoughts of Draco when a cautious hand crept up somewhere down the table. He nodded and smiled. "Veronica Dover, isn't it?"

"Yes." Dover had been a clerk in the Ministry, and had brought a lot of information along with her as her gift when she joined the revolution. She'd been slower to learn curses, but Ron had said she was excellent with binding and disarming spells. "I was wondering, sir, if it isn't time that we began peace talks with the Ministry?"

Harry kept his reaction to that thought off his face. Ron snorted aloud for him, anyway, and then looked like he was going to faint as he sat there. Harry saw no reason to go that far. He only nodded and said in a voice that he hoped would come across as unthreatening, "That's an interesting idea. Why do you think they would respond differently now than all the other times that we might have approached them in the past?"

"Sir." Dover bit her lip, and Harry wanted to tell her not to call him "sir," but that would distract her more than it was worth right now. "We've burned down their prison. We've shown that we're more powerful than anything they can muster." Then she took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. "Than-anything they can do to threaten us in return. They might accept our overtures. Minister Clearwater isn't stupid."

"Do you think they would accept our long-term goals?" Harry asked. He didn't think they would, but Dover had worked more directly in the bureaucracy than he had and might know the mindsets of people like Clearwater better. "That they'll have to change the justice system and do things like actually investigate claims of bribes offered to the Wizengamot?"

"I don't know, sir." Dover's hands were locked around one another, white-knuckled. "We can only try."

"That's a good suggestion," Harry said. "I'll take it under advisement. Would you consent to be one of the emissaries, if we do send someone?"

Before Dover could answer, a violent start came from further down the table, and a scowling face leaned forwards so that Harry could see her. Harry raised his eyebrows and settled back further into his seat.

"Auror Pedlar," he said. "Do give us your thoughts."

Carina Pedlar had been one of Ron's best trainees during the short period when they'd worked with new Aurors, and one of the first people to join the rebellion, and one of the best students Ron had put into the new quatrains, to hear him tell it. But she had a temper, and once she took a dislike to someone...well, she was the sort of Auror who had to be restrained from putting a boot into someone's ribs on the sly, under the theory that "they're bastards anyway." From the fierce way her eyes fixed on him, Harry reckoned that he must have managed to earn her enmity.

"You don't have any idea what you're doing," she said. "That's bloody obvious."

"That's why I'm asking for suggestions," Harry said. "I made decisions under influences that I shouldn't have considered. I tried to take all the danger on my own shoulders, and then I did things just because I thought they would intimidate the Ministry, and it's lost me support. What would you suggest?"

"You won't listen to them," Pedlar said. "When you say that you'll take something under advisement, that's just code for ignoring it. I heard Minister Duplais say it all the time. Why in the _world _did you think that I wouldn't recognize it when you used it? Are you trying to be like him in all the wrong ways?"

"I didn't know there was a right way to be like him," Harry said, deciding on that response as the safest one of all those currently boiling behind his tongue. Ron was frantically trying to catch his eye, but Harry knew what message Ron would be trying to send to him: _don't engage Pedlar. _But he had to, because otherwise he would seem timid, and Harry never wanted anyone else to think like Catchers and believe that they could walk all over him. "Surely you didn't admire his attitude towards Muggleborns?" Pedlar was Muggleborn herself, from what he could remember.

Pedlar shook her head hard enough to make her black hair fly around her. Her eyes were brown and sharp, so bright in their ferocity that they reminded Harry of Ginny's. "No. But he got things done, and he listened to his subordinates, and didn't fob them off with polite words."

"He didn't listen to me," Harry said. "Or to Ron, or to anyone else who opposed what he wanted to do. He thought he was above all that." He felt a spark at his wrist, and looked down to see a small flame burning there. He frowned and clenched his fingers to dismiss it.

"So you'll burn anyone who opposes you to death?" Pedlar asked, voice indignant as a crow's. "Is that it?"

"No," Harry said. "That was my wild magic, and I am trying to keep control of it better than I used to." Though control, in this case, meant not reading the books that had taught him the most about how to keep the world around him from exploding into flames every time he got angry. _Funny how that goes. But Draco and Ron were both right that the books were taking me away from the world and the reality of the rebellion. _"I can only promise to listen, though. I can't take every suggestion into consideration, because not all of them will work. And I can't put all of them into practice, because we don't have enough time, or money, or people. Would you rather that I _do _lie about how much I'm going to listen to someone?"

"You could do both," Pedlar whispered, her voice dark with something that might have been resentment, might have been fury, might have been hatred. "You could give little white lies, diplomatic ones, and _do _put into practice as much as you can."

Harry rolled his eyes. It actually felt good to respond the way he wanted to, to stop holding himself back because he was worried about alienating someone or he was telling himself that he couldn't know what they'd risked, coming to join the rebellion. "You just told me off for using any kind of diplomatic words. Now you want lies. Make up your bloody mind."

"A real Minister wouldn't swear at his people," Pedlar said, voice softer than ever with Harry-didn't-know-what.

"Good thing I don't aspire to be Minister," Harry said. "Now. Do you have a suggestion, other than lie, about what I should do?"

Pedlar spread her hands. "You've already shown that you won't listen to me; what more do you want?"

Harry again rolled his eyes. They didn't believe in his attempt to hold back and be friendly and be mild? They thought he was detached or lacking a personality if he did that? Fine, then he wouldn't. "You've contradicted yourself and encouraged Dover to believe that I'm lying, if not other people," he said, and turned his shoulder to Pedlar, facing Dover again. "Will you draw up a list of suggestions for the way that we can implement your plan of negotiations, please? And make a list of names for people you think would make good negotiators."

Dover gaped openly at him for a second before her shoulders straightened, and she nodded to him. Harry smiled back. "Other suggestions?" he asked.

* * *

Draco knew that the opposition had changed Potter. He hadn't anticipated in what direction it would alter him.

The man who sat at the head of the table was more human than he had been. He was snapping when something annoyed him, he was pointing out other people's mistakes, and he was asking for ideas instead of assuming that he had genius ones all on his own, genius ones that he was the only person needed to implement.

But he was still doing things wrong. He hadn't felt out the factions that Draco knew existed in the rebellion. He had expressed no disappointment over the loss of Catchers and those who had followed him, as the politic thing to do would have been.

He had accepted Draco's oath, and let Lucius stay.

Of course, that last was a mistake that benefited Draco personally, and he would have had to leave the rebellion if Potter hadn't made it. There was no choice. He no longer thought about his parents exactly as he had for the past seven years, getting them free of Azkaban was no longer the overriding goal that it had been, but he still owed them loyalty for protecting him.

He wasn't blind to the stares that followed him, though, or the mutters that seemed to swell louder every time he and Potter crossed paths. Draco dealt with it by casting a few freezing glares at the most volatile people-this Pedlar seemed like someone he would have to put down hard to keep her from rising up and attacking his back-and ignoring the rest.

He knew the real state of affairs between him and Potter, the way Potter's eyes had shone when he reached out to help Draco back up after his oath, the questions that Potter had asked Lucius and the stone expression on his face as he listened to the answers that were half-spittle. He saw no need to tell everyone.

A woman he didn't know, grey-haired with sensible dark robes, suggested that Potter step aside as leader of the rebellion and let Weasley take over. Draco looked up the table and found Weasley staring back at him with an identical expression of doubt and horror.

Draco bit the corner of his lip, hard, so that he wouldn't laugh out loud and betray Potter's earnest good intentions. Of course Potter would think that his best friend could lead the rebellion in his stead, or pretend to think so in front of these people who trusted said best friend. But both Draco and Weasley knew it would be a terrible idea.

_Though likely we think that for completely different reasons, _Draco had to concede when Weasley gave him a bewildered look. He hadn't been expecting the support, and Draco didn't know why.

_He must not think of us as natural friends or allies, the way I do. And I'll concede that Potter's attraction to me must worry him._

"Why _not_, though?"

Draco frowned as he turned back to the main conversation. He'd lost track of it, so overwhelmed by his own private thoughts about Weasley. That was a bad precedent to fall into. Pedlar was leaning forwards again, as aggressive as Draco would have wished for when he was Potter's enemy, all but pounding a fist into the table.

"You'll talk and talk about these suggestions, and never do anything about them," she said. "You'll do the same thing with this suggestion that you step down. Amelie thinks that you should, _I _think you should, and in the meantime you're still the one who sits up at the top of the table and collects the suggestions."

Potter shrugged, a weird little smile appearing on his face that Draco distrusted immediately. He had last seen that smile when Potter was summoning dragons, and before that, when he destroyed the Inferi with fire. "If you want me to step down, then make the suggestion," he said. "Add your voice to the chorus. But if I resigned immediately, then you could blast me for not taking enough time to consider important decisions. I've told you before, I'm not interested in the contradictions that you want to offer up in lieu of advice. I'm interested in _real _advice."

"There's one thing you could do that would make everything better immediately," Pedlar said.

"Yes?" Potter looked at her with interest.

"Force Malfoy to give his parents up to the Ministry." Pedlar hooked her finger at Draco. "I don't trust his oath. Why _should _we trust an oath given by someone with a Dark Mark on his arm? It's probably worthless. If you hand the confessed Death Eaters over for justice, then it'll seem that you have more consistent aims and we can trust you more."

"_Seem_," Potter echoed softly.

Draco, his heart pounding with the possible necessity to defend his father, slowed down enough to notice that Potter's smile had faded. _Good. He caught that. _Pedlar was trying to act reasonable and neutral some of the time, but she couldn't help betraying herself. She just wanted Potter gone. Nothing that he did short of that would content her, and Draco thought she might actually be less happy than she imagined with him out of the leadership of the rebellion. She probably wouldn't be able to criticize the new leader so openly, and her favorite target would be gone.

"What matters is actually having those aims," Potter said. "Not seeming, not when you'll only find another way to criticize."

Pedlar laughed nastily. Draco was starting to think that her voice was one of the most unpleasant ones he'd ever heard. "What's the matter? Afraid of a little criticism?" Her hand strayed down to her side to what Draco assumed was her wand hidden under a fold of cloth, and her voice grew thick. "Afraid to fight me? I would forgive everything if you would duel me."

"I don't want to," Potter said.

"I _knew _it." Pedlar sounded like someone savoring a steak dinner. "Fear."

"It deprives the rebellion of a good fighter if I beat you, and it increases your contempt for me if I let you win," Potter continued. "There's no way that it makes good political sense. Now. Are you going to sit down and let us get on with this meeting, or are you going to insist on seeing why I don't consider you even a challenge?"

Pedlar started to rise to her feet. People on either side of her scrambled away. Draco tensed. If he _had _to choose a side, then he would, but he would prefer not to. Others would think he was fighting for Potter only because Potter had agreed to protect his parents.

_And that matters to you? Everyone who wants to give up your parents to the Ministry, including your mother, who did nothing, is your enemy._

Draco was still hesitating when Potter lifted a hand and gestured with it. His fingers were curled, splayed outwards, and he moved them as if he had tangled a net around them and was pulling it up and in. Draco was watching closely, and was sure that he never had a wand in his hand and never said anything.

Pedlar gasped and choked, bending at the waist. Small wisps of fire escaped her mouth. She wavered back and forth, one arm trying to lift her wand, before she gave up and just wrapped both hands around her stomach. Squeals of pain escaped her whenever she could draw the breath.

Potter's face wasn't angry, just exasperated and weary. He snapped his fingers, and Pedlar straightened up again, shaking. Potter slapped his hand on the table and turned to the others staring at him in a mixture of fascination, fear, and horror.

_And anger, of course, _Draco thought, struggling hard to concentrate on rational thought, to ignore the burn in his own gut that was most definitely _not _anger. _That's there, too._

"I'm willing to listen to suggestions," Potter said. "I'm trying to show that. But I'm not going to tolerate two things. One of them is a threat to betray us-any of us-to the Ministry. The other is the suggestion that because someone thinks he or she can beat me in a duel, I should step down as leader. Stepping down as leader may still turn out to be the best thing I could do for the revolution. So we'll discuss it. But no, you can't beat me in a duel. Don't try."

Pedlar sat back down. Her face was pale, but she kept her hands on the table and didn't look at Potter. _Good. _Pedlar was the kind of person who couldn't be an asset unless she believed absolutely in what someone else was doing, and wasn't worth the trouble to court.

Draco coughed gently and leaned forwards until he was sure that other people as well as Potter would pay attention to him.

No need to ask about Potter paying attention to him. Potter's eyes turned to him the minute he began to move. "Yes, Draco?" he asked, and his voice was warm and welcoming enough to make Weasley shift in his seat and cast an uneasy glance at Draco.

"We should be seeking allies," Draco said. "We're small enough as it is right now, and likely to become smaller if people insist on leaving." He ignored some of the glares he got effortlessly. They were thinking about leaving, or would depart if they couldn't get their way. He didn't see what was so important about hiding their delusions. They didn't intend to hide their dislike of him, after all. "Other people who have the same goals we do."

Potter's face acquired a thoughtful cast. "The immediate ones I think of are the werewolves and the vampires who resist Ministry registration. They're powerful enough to matter, and they might help us given that they don't like the way the Ministry treats them. But they'd want certain things that I couldn't give them."

"They're _evil_," the grey-haired woman who had asked Potter to step down earlier said in a shocked voice.

"Are they, or is that the perception the Ministry encourages you to have of them?" Potter countered at once. His eyes were on Draco again. "Did you have someone else in mind?"

Draco nodded. "There are people who haven't joined us but _did _leave the Ministry. The most recent one to resign was Auror Kenneth Malvorn, the one they had give that interview in the _Daily Prophet. _They might be willing to help us with less inherently destructive plans than the one that destroyed Azkaban."

Potter nodded. "A good suggestion. We'll take it under advisement." He wrote down the words on the parchment in front of him, then looked around for others.

A few more people voiced suggestions, most of them heavily carrying the idea that Potter should step down. Potter nodded with no trace of worry or anger and also wrote them down. One ridiculous person said that Potter should go back to concentrating on his wild magic and leave the strategizing up to Weasley-that is, continue the tactics that had got them into this mess in the first place. But Potter only wrote that one down with a serious nod, just like all the others.

By the time that everyone filed out of the room, Draco was feeling a bit better. Potter wasn't a political genius, no, and there were people who would have said that he should try his best to apologize to Pedlar and speak more seriously about the idea to make overtures to the Ministry.

But this at least gave them a reason to start looking in new directions. Potter wasn't paying attention to only books any longer.

A prickling on the back of his neck caused Draco to turn around. Potter was watching him with bright eyes, and ignoring those who watched and muttered. Why not? If he did step down as leader, then they would have no reason to care so much about his private life.

_No, not only paying attention to books any longer. _

Draco swallowed, gave Potter a little half-nod, and took his leave.


	28. Setting the Trap

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Twenty-Eight-Setting the Trap_

"I want you to investigate everything in the Ministry records about prophecy, Hermione."

A corner of Hermione's mind squirmed in hate when the Minister addressed her by her first name. But she nodded smoothly, without otherwise moving, since so much of her mind was exploding in fireworks and bursts of light that someone like Clearwater had deigned to notice her. "Yes, Minister. What should I do with the records that I find?"

Clearwater hesitated, and then rose from her chair and turned her back to Hermione, staring out the enchanted window of her office. Her hands were clasped together behind her back. Hermione noted in the rebellious corner of her mind that that didn't happen often, and usually meant Clearwater was concerned about something.

The rest of her mind barked and rioted and resisted and rejected the suggestions that her brain was trying to propose. There was no such _thing _as Clearwater standing like that. She was the Minister. Her gestures were beyond such analysis. Hermione couldn't say what they meant because the Minister was so much beyond her, so much a creature of a different order.

"Bring them to me," Clearwater said at last, and carried on murmuring some words to herself. "I don't know if I'll know it when I see it. How clear are the references? How well does the person who stole the book know it?"

"Madam?"

Clearwater started and turned around again. "Nothing," she said. "It is nothing. You are not to worry about it, Hermione. I _forbid _you from doing anything but finding the records and bringing them to me. Do you understand?"

Hermione's head bobbed back and forth on her neck like a withering flower, while the rest of her mind shrieked in hate and flexed its claws.

But why should it? That was what she didn't understand. The small corner of her mind came and troubled her at night, filled her head with impossible dark fantasies when she looked at the Minister, and squeezed her heart with its poisoned talons. Hermione pondered on the mystery of her divided mind as she left the office.

It was getting harder to form full thoughts.

No, only the thoughts that she shouldn't form. If she gave in and thought the way she knew the Minister wanted her to, there was no cloying fog to push against, no reason to think that she would wake at night covered in cold sweat. This was the natural way to think. She knew that. What she lacked was a reason to summon the fog in the first place. It was unpleasant. Why form the thoughts that would cause it to appear?

Because it was important.

But it was so hard, sometimes, to remember why it was important. Those were the times that she would prefer to give up and just do as the Minister wanted her to do. It would be safe. Calm. For the best.

But she had never preferred the safe and the calm, and she knew that sometimes the best was more or less directly opposed to them. When she had sat on the stool beneath the Sorting Hat, demanding that it put her in Gryffindor instead of the Ravenclaw House that had been its first choice, the Hat had said something about how much safer she would be away from that House, and Hermione hadn't laughed but she had wanted to. She had heard that Gryffindor was the _best _House, and that was the one she wanted.

That thought grew another small space in her mind, one she could use to breathe. Hermione was glad that it existed.

Another moment later, she wasn't sure that she _was _glad it existed, or why she was, but she walked down the corridor to the office where the Ministry stored such semi-useless records as the ones of prophecy with a spring in her step.

* * *

_This isn't going to work._

Fred's voice was insistent in his head. George rolled his eyes and reached over to tug on one of the chains attached to the cage, the chains that were meant to channel the lightning and give it a safe space to bleed out if the cage failed to contain it. "Just yesterday, you were enthusiastic about this plan. What changed?"

_That was yesterday. _

George snorted, not bothering to say anything in response. His fingers tapped lightly along the chain, once, twice, and then he turned away and picked up the lump of jade that he and Fred had both agreed to make the key to the cage. Jade wasn't inherently more magical for lightning than a whole host of other gems, but here, the symbolism was important. The lightning they had seen wouldn't take the form of a stag if symbolism wasn't important, since the stag was Harry's Patronus.

And the jade would represent Harry's green eyes to Fred and George, while it would probably represent his mum's eyes to Harry. It was important.

"Do you have anything else to say before we begin the test, Mr. Doubter?" George muttered. It was a name that Mum used to call Fred whenever he made a face in front of some unfamiliar food. The point was that he wouldn't trust her cooking skill to make whatever it was good, and that doubt had carried into their adult lives.

Fred didn't laugh this time. _You better know what you're doing. If you get yourself killed, then there goes _my _place to live as well as your body._

George snorted. "I'll keep that in mind," he said, and then stepped back and yanked on the chain one more time before lifting the lump of jade and running his fingers downwards over the surface.

The cage flashed. George had a moment to see the lightning coiling around it, the prongs and thorns of it gleaming, the swift movement making him catch his breath. He smiled.

Fred screamed in his mind. George thought he could feel his brother's hands clutching at his shoulders and pressing him flat to the floor, but that was the kind of delusion, he decided later, that everyone thought he _should _have just because his brother was dead.

The cage blew up with silent, magnificent fury. That was the thing George mostly remembered about it later, how silent it was. Of course, lightning made no appreciable noise, something one tended to forget when it was paired with thunder and wind. The cage bars parted and tumbled to the far sides of the room. The chains that were attached to it rasped against the metal bars and against the far walls they connected with, whipping and soaring and singing. George felt the immense crackle of electricity over his head, and felt his hair standing up.

Then there was silence, and they were lying in the middle of a lab filled with the scent of a storm and several fringed, twisted remains of other experimental designs.

_Told you, _Fred whispered smugly in the back of his head.

"You shut up," George grumbled back, winced as he realized that he was gripping a charred and smoking lump of jade and that it was cutting into his palm, and flung it away so that he could stand up and study what had happened to disrupt their lightning trap.

* * *

"You could write to Ginny, you know."

The almost random suggestion from Ron came as Harry was revising the list of suggestions that the members of the rebellion had handed him. Harry looked up, raising one eyebrow. He thought that perhaps the temptation to say it had come from the fact that Harry was already looking at one set of advice, so Ron might as well add his own.

"What about?" Harry asked. "I haven't heard from her a lot since we started fighting, you know. I assumed that she wanted to distance herself from it." Not that he could blame her. Sometimes, when he thought about the seething discontent around him now, he wondered if he would ever be able to fulfill the revolution's goals in any reasonable fashion.

And then he thought about Draco, and the wild magic, and knew that strength could come from strange places.

"I mean." Ron's face was red, and he fumbled with his words in a way that was more familiar from the Hogwarts schoolboy Harry had known than the confident man he had become, the man who had promised to kill Minister Clearwater for interfering with Hermione. Harry leaned forwards, elbows resting on the table that separated them, to look him in the eye. "If you want someone to date. You could."

Harry rolled his eyes. "We aren't interested in each other that way, Ron. And I doubt she would appreciate you offering her up as-what? A bedwarmer?"

Ron's face flushed more deeply than it had, deeply enough to make his freckles disappear, and he glared as though Harry had insulted the honor of the Weasley family. Harry looked back, unrepentant. If he'd done that, then Ron had already done it first, and in a way that was much worse than anything Harry could have said.

"She still has a bit of a crush on you," Ron said between gritted teeth. "And better her than bloody _Malfoy_."

Harry laughed. "As far as Draco is concerned, the same thing might as well be true. I don't think you have to worry about him turning to me, Ron. He wants to protect his parents, and that's _all _he wants to do. I wish I had his dedication to a single goal."

Ron peered at him under a fringe of carroty hair, blinking uncertainly. "He spends enough time around you that I thought..."

Harry shrugged. "I'm a lot more attracted to him than he is to me. I represent everything he has to question. I was a Ministry Auror for seven years, the same length of time his parents spent in prison. I started a rebellion, but it was for ideals that he doesn't share. He only came to me on a chance of fulfilling his most pressing dream, and now that it's fulfilled, why should he care to stay? I actually expected him to leave soon after Catchers did."

The thought made his chest ache, but as far as Harry knew, it was true. Yes, Draco had responded to the kiss, but that could have been the shock of the moment, or just reluctance to refuse Harry. He had what he wanted. Harry was coming to learn, the hard way, how many people had joined the rebellion in the hopes of getting something other than what Harry was interested in.

"But he swore that oath," Ron said hesitantly.

Harry nodded. "It didn't make sense to me either, but when I thought about it, I realized why. This is the safest place for his parents right now, despite all the people who hate them. The Ministry's taken the Manor, and if they had relatives to flee to, I think Draco would have done it the first night he had them free, or as soon as they were strong enough. Instead, it's been weeks since Azkaban, weeks since the trials we gave them, and they're still here."

Ron chewed his lip, his eyebrows bent so inwards that they looked as if they would meet over his nose. "I don't believe that, mate," he said at last. "And I don't think Malfoy does, either. I think he probably...wants more than you think he does." He sounded as if he was choking.

Harry shook his head. "Sometimes I think that's true, but then I remember that he doesn't pay that much attention to me since he's sworn the oath." He shrugged, and tried to let the sting roll off him much as he let the contempt of some of his people in the revolution do. "I don't know, Ron. I wish that you wouldn't worry so much about it. The chances are extremely small that it'll ever come to anything."

Ron watched him with wise eyes. "And if that's not what you want?"

Harry matched him glance for glance. "I'm really good at putting off desires that only I want."

"And if _he _wants something else?"

Harry shrugged and turned back to the list of suggestions. "I'll deal with that when it comes to it."

* * *

"If you would...if you could..."

Long after Draco had left the set of rooms where his parents were forced to dwell, he heard his mother's low, miserable voice echoing in his head, and felt the earnest clutch of her fingers at his arm.

He sat in front of the fire in his own room, his head lowered in his hands. The fire flickered close and hot enough to singe the hairs in his arm. Draco welcomed the sensation. That was fine with him, if something could replace his mother's pleading in his memory.

She wanted Draco to get them free. She had promised that they wouldn't try to hurt anyone or take the Manor back, that they wouldn't do anything that would expose them to the Ministry. They only wished to leave Britain, she said. She had relatives in France they could go to, and so did his father. They could find a way to travel without Flooing, or using Portkeys, or Apparating, all of which either required wands or the cooperation of the Ministry. They would go, she said over and over again, and if Draco would only help them past the guards Potter had put on them and the locking spells that Potter had supervised himself, they would be gone.

Meanwhile, Lucius said nothing like that but watched them both with dark, hot eyes. Draco couldn't be sure how much of Narcissa's pleading he understood, since he still didn't know if his father was sane after his stay in Azkaban or not. Sometimes it didn't seem so.

Draco had taken his mother's hands in his own, rubbing the delicate bones, and said they would go together. He didn't mind helping them get past the guards; as a more-or-less trusted member of the revolution, he knew their schedules and the strengths and weaknesses of the people who had volunteered to check on the prisoners. He had a wand. They could Apparate. They could go-

He had fallen silent when his mother's silence registered with him. She had sat there, and lowered her eyes when Draco met her gaze for too long, with only a single, miserable glance at his father to explain.

Meanwhile, Lucius had bared his teeth as if they were in competition.

Draco understood, then. His mother had chosen to go to prison with his father although she could have stayed free. And now she was choosing again, turning her back on the son she no longer understood, wanting to go into exile with the man who hated Potter more than she did and understood this new world even less than she did.

Draco loved his parents. They might love him back, but not as much as he had always thought, always hoped for.

He stood up and paced his bedroom. His skin felt hot, tight, confined, on fire, and not from his proximity to the hearth. His childhood was passing before his eyes, the final battle when his mother had lied to the Dark Lord so that Potter would tell her whether Draco was alive. His father had pleaded for the same thing, Draco's safety and news of him. Those had been torches to keep alive in his heart, to shelter from the harsh wind the world directed at them, to assert silently whenever someone said that his parents were evil. Someone _else _might think that, but _Draco _knew the truth. He would be able to rely on his parents' love and support for him no matter what.

But seven years in Azkaban had changed that truth.

He had thought...

He had wanted...

He _deserved _to have someone who would love him for himself. Who would admire him, not despise him, the way that Lucius did, for surviving and making himself into someone new, someone who didn't mindlessly repeat the traditions of his family. Who would speak low words of comfort when Draco told the truth, and not reveal it to everyone else to be laughed at, or choose someone else over Draco.

Had his parents ever loved him? Had they been proud of him as more than an appendage to the family? Had Azkaban begun the change, or just deepened and exposed a rift that was already there?

Draco shook himself sharply from the thoughts. No. He wasn't going to think that way, not right now. What _mattered _was that he deserved to have someone treat him like he was special, to have someone love him more than anything, and he knew a person in the manor who would do that.

He dressed with feverish haste, tugging off the old, worn robe that he'd put on because he'd thought he was going to bed soon and trying to smooth wrinkles out of his daytime clothes in front of the mirror. Then he caught his gaze in the mirror and had to turn his head aside. Desperate. He looked desperate.

No. He couldn't be that way. He closed his eyes, turned away from the mirror, and made his way to the door of his rooms.

He had to be careful and go slowly down the corridors where the guards patrolled, guarding the prisoners taken from Azkaban, the ones who had confessed under Veritaserum that they weren't guilty but were still so affected by their time in Azkaban the rebels had to keep them under control. Most of the time, these revolutionaries wouldn't notice a sound that shouldn't be there from someone shuffling under a Disillusionment Charm, but here, they would. Draco spent five minutes at one point flattened against a wall less than a foot from Pedlar, who kept turning her head and wrinkling her nose as though she smelled a stink she couldn't trace the source of.

He had thought that might reduce his desperation and send him crawling back to his rooms in embarrassment, but it only increased his determination to have something for himself, just once, to have someone who loved him in that way. Perhaps he wouldn't be here if not for that emotion. But he _was _feeling it, and he was as equally tired of being told what to feel as everything else.

He halted in front of Potter's door and listened hard. No matter how long he stood there, though, he heard no voices, and the cacophonic beating of his heart didn't lessen.

At last, he knocked.

Potter opened the door and looked straight at him, the way he had the other time Draco had lingered outside his rooms under a Disillusionment Charm. He blinked in surprise. "Draco," he murmured. "What's the matter? Is someone harassing your parents?" He stepped aside, inviting Draco into the sanctuary he'd come seeking. He watched the fire flickering warmly against the walls for a minute before he came in. His own hands were fever-hot, and he didn't feel the need to cuddle up against the hearth.

"No," Draco said. "But I had-" He swallowed. What would happen if he told Potter the real reason he was here? Would Potter hate him? Would he refuse the comfort, because Draco didn't come to him professing Gryffindor affection and all that shit?

"Yes?" Potter was waiting for him, eyes bright and attentive.

Draco looked at him, and imagined fire racing around him, curling about him. He saw Potter, again, spinning his soul and Weasley's into fire. He saw him laughing as he destroyed the Inferi, standing fearless in front of a summoned dragon, listening to the doubters and complainers about him with patience that Draco would have been unable to muster if it was him, at least not without straining a muscle.

And there was want in him. Enough lust for this. Enough desire to convince Potter that he had come seeking nothing else.

"I want someone who wants me," Draco said. "Who doesn't pay their sole attention to another person. Who's had a dark past, but isn't consumed by it." He took a step nearer.

Potter's lips parted in surprise, but when he shook his head, Draco knew that it didn't come from a refusal. "Draco. Are you sure you want this? I'm not the best lover you could have, you know. I'm not a pure-blood, not of the right set of beliefs-"

Draco laughed harshly. "All the pure-bloods I know are in prison or refused to help me. _You're _the one who's made my dearest desire come true. And I want you to do it again." He leaned forwards and kissed Potter, and again there was fever heat in him, at his lips, reaching out to curl around Potter and drag him closer.

Potter made one startled sound, just one. Then his hands came up and curled around the back of Draco's neck.

And all about them was fire.

* * *

Harry kissed gently, carefully. He thought that Draco would snap to his senses in an instant. This was a reaction to something that had happened with his parents, not an action in and of itself. When he realized that Harry was serious about this, that he did want to do more than kiss Draco, he would back away. Harry set himself not to be worried about that or hurt if it happened.

But it didn't happen. Draco pressed closer instead, snarling impatiently, as if he thought that Harry was trying to hold out on him because he didn't immediately grind into Draco and act as if he wanted to be inside him. He even slid one clever hand down and caught Harry around the hip, bringing him so close that Harry sighed. He was hard now, and his erection scraped and teased Draco's groin.

Draco moaned. He had to pull his mouth away from Harry's to do it, and his lips were wide and dripping, his eyes impatient and wild. He yanked at Harry's shirt, but didn't succeed in getting the buttons loose, maybe because he hadn't tried to undress someone at that speed before. He whined under his breath, loud, lustful.

Harry hushed him with a murmured breath and pushed Draco back, aiming for the wall next to the hearth. He didn't think they would make it to the bed just now, and he could see the fire flickering madly around him out of the corner of his eye. At least he couldn't burn stone.

Draco lurched forwards and locked their mouths again the moment Harry stopped pushing him. Harry stroked a hand up and down his back and murmured in delight, in helplessness, in wonder, in love. Yes, he was in love, a hard thing to realize just at that moment, with salt in his mouth and skin sliding against skin and their erections butting and rubbing blindly, but here they were, and here he was.

Draco bit him when Harry tried to slow down, and Harry reached out and got a solid grip against Draco's cock. He couldn't quite hold it, because they were pressed together too tightly for that. But he held his hand out vertically, the palm facing Draco, and Draco rolled his hips and slid his cock against the flat table of Harry's hand, back and forth, faster and faster, and his eyes were brilliant with gratitude and he was gasping and moaning and laughing.

"Oh Merlin, oh Merlin, oh _Merlin_," he said, and with that wail he came.

The wetness of it against Harry's fingers, the way Draco's back arched and his eyes opened, shades of grey within grey, and the flare of his hair like a demented halo...

Harry came, with a single surge forwards and sharp twist of his hips.

The fire around him reared and roared and spread wide, creating a corona above Harry's head, forming and glittering in shapeless fountains of light, rising, falling, glittering so hard that Draco cried out and covered his eyes. Harry shielded him from the sparks that fell with his own impervious skin. The fire danced madly, triumphantly, and went out at last. Draco peered cautiously about from beneath his hand.

"That was," he said, and Harry started kissing him before he could say anything.

It _was. _That was enough. No adjectives needed.


	29. Consequences

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Twenty-Nine-Consequences_

When Draco opened his eyes, his first thought was, _I'm warm._

It was only his second and later thoughts that traveled into the realm of _Shit, What have I done?, I can't believe I did that, _and similar things, despite what he tried to tell himself later.

He turned around slowly, though that was hard as a clutching arm was draped over his waist and Potter shifted complainingly, muttering, when Draco moved. But he went back to sleep in the next instant, or at least Draco assumed he did; the wrinkles smoothed out of his face, his eyelids dropped straight down, and he began to breathe in long, slow, deep breaths. Not quite a snore, Draco thought. He must not have snored at all. Draco had slept beside him most of the night, and he would have woken, since he was sensitive to things like that, with the delicate refinement of a Malfoy.

He was a Malfoy.

Who had just slept with a Potter. Who had his parents free because of that Potter, and still alive on sufferance because of a Potter.

Not just any Potter, _this _Potter, who had played such a large part in destroying his father's freedom and ambitions.

The father who didn't care for him anymore, who had exasperated him enough last night that he had come here looking for a pity fuck. Draco took a long breath and then released it in a loose, shuddering laugh that he only kept soft so as to avoid waking Potter up.

God. He was a mess. He was in a mess. He didn't know what to do next, what to change in the hope that its falling, its changing, wouldn't mess up something else that he depended on.

He didn't know who he was anymore.

And _that _was the main reason that he was here in Potter's bed; he could admit it to himself if no one else. He was still looking for someone who would help him define himself, by opposition if nothing else. He had spent so long in his father's shadow that it was laughable, pathetic. His father had taught Draco who he was in this constantly shifting world, he had sheltered Draco and let him dream of the day that he would become someone on his own.

But that day had never arrived. Lucius and his protection and teaching were stripped from his life suddenly, and Draco had sought them again, instead of seeking something to replace them.

The way he should have.

But the admonition had the same problem with all the admonitions that Draco had ever heard directed at him: from Snape, from Dumbledore, from the Death Eaters who had thought he could be a worthy servant of Voldemort or should be, from Potter, from the Ministry. They arrived _too late. _Draco was already standing among the crumbling pieces of his life by the time he received them, with no hope of picking up those pieces and starting again.

_I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do._

The words hammered in his skull, and he tried to breathe and found that the breath had locked up in his lungs. Draco reached out and caught the edge of the bed, flailing, his words coming out as fluttering whimpers.

"Draco?"

That was Potter, the one sitting up behind him, the one who sounded alarmed for him, the first person Draco had heard in days who did. He turned and buried his head in Potter's chest, and his breath came rushing out of him, as though the hands that Potter put gently on his back a second later were hammers or paddles. Potter rocked him back and forth, saying nothing. Draco wondered how he knew that silence was needed. There was a lot Potter knew or understood about him that didn't seem easy to guess.

Or maybe it was, and his parents were simply ignoring it to focus on their own special, exclusive bond, one that Draco had never belonged to, one that his mother had chosen over her only child...

The feeling of suffocation descended on him again, and he punched Potter in the shoulder. "Why did you have to be the one to rescue them?" he whispered, pulling back so that he could stare into that old-young, wise-foolish, green-eyed face. "Why did you have to be the one to change my life? It couldn't be someone who didn't hate me, it couldn't be someone neutral, it had to be _you_."

"I don't hate you."

Draco shut his eyes, turned his head away. The words continued to flow out of his mouth, relentless, like diarrhea. "That makes it worse. _Worse. _Because that way, I have no one to blame because my parents don't care for me. I came to you last night because I wanted someone to fuck the pain away, someone to look at me with that light in his eyes that my mother uses when she looks at my father. And now I know that you really did that, and that I can't be angry with you, and that I'm getting angrier at you as a result of it."

Potter was silent for so long that Draco tensed. This was it, Potter was going to kick him out of bed, and part of Draco's mind would be relieved even as the rest of him wailed in loss. That would confirm the prejudices that were starting to take root in Draco's mind, the long-held prejudices about Potter and how much he hated what Draco represented, and although he would be alone again, at least he would have something to define himself against. He would know who he was.

"Well," Potter said at last. "I won't deny that I'm a bit disappointed by this."

Draco leaped out of the bed, trying to ignore the fact that he was naked from the waist up and that he could still feel a bit of crackling stickiness in his pants from the come that they hadn't cleaned off, and pointed a trembling finger at Potter. "Stop _doing _that!"

"Stop what?" Potter leaned an elbow on the bed and frowned at him. The frown was good, Draco thought. It looked as threatening as any scowl that Potter had tossed him in school, now that he knew what Potter was capable of. "Being honest? If I did that, then I'd have to lie to you, and I'm neither good at lying generally nor doing it to people I like."

"You're acting as though it's reasonable, what I'm doing," Draco said bitterly. "You're acting like you can forgive me for sleeping with you when what you really want is some grand, romantic love affair. Why aren't you sneering at me for not being a perfect Gryffindor? Why aren't you kicking me out?"

* * *

_Oh. I know what he wants, now._

Harry had seen the same hunger in the eyes of some of the people he'd debated with the other day. Draco hungered for simple answers. He wanted someone to tell him what was wrong and what was right, although maybe not for the same reasons as other people. If Harry tried to explain the whole complicated, tangled, messy, complex truth-such as that he'd fucked up and was trying to make up for his mistakes now, or that he wanted Draco despite knowing that he wasn't perfect-then it took time and they got more and more agitated.

But it was the _truth_, that was the problem. And the truth was complex, at least in this situation. For a moment, Harry found himself envying people like Lucius Malfoy. Their lives probably seemed pretty simple and straightforward.

Harry nodded. He would give the truth, and hope that was enough, if Draco would let him explain it.

"Because I've already changed from the person you're talking about, the one who wanted the grand, romantic love affair," he said. "I can't-I know I can't have that with someone like you. But I want you anyway, because you burn with the kind of determination I need."

"So it's a selfish longing then?" Draco's face wavered. He didn't know if he should laugh or get angry, Harry thought, and his magic purred beneath his heart, telling him that Draco's heart was going far too fast and that he was less calm than he appeared.

"Yes," Harry said, dryly. "You could call it that. But you could also call it admiration. I would."

"Because you're deluded."

Harry rolled his eyes and bit back the sharp words that wanted to escape, about how Draco would always find the one copper Knut in a heap of Galleons. "You want to think that because you're not used to this," he said quietly. "And because the one I want is you. That's it, isn't it? Because your parents are turning away from you, and they're the only ones who ever wanted you, you can't believe that someone else would."

For a second, Draco's face was stricken, and then he turned away as if he would bolt, lost shirt and all. Harry sprang up from the bed and brought one hand down, and a new ward appeared over the door of his room, blazing with light and heat in a way that left no doubt about what would happen should Draco come closer.

Draco jerked to a halt and stood there, shivering and panting as though he assumed Harry would strike him. Then he turned around and lifted his chin, his eyes shining with hatred. Or at least, it looked like hatred. Harry ignored that, focusing on the way Draco breathed. This was about more than his own feelings, far more. It was about what Draco needed.

"Going to keep me prisoner here, then?" Draco asked, his voice cracking down the middle. "Like father, like son?"

"That would be too easy for you," Harry said. "No. All I want to know is what you intend to do next. Should we get you out a second way, so that no one sees you emerging from my room and draws conclusions you don't wish them to draw? Are you going to pretend this never happened?" That would hurt, but as long as it was actually Draco's decision and not something that happened simply because no one was brave enough to pin him down, that would be fine. "Are you going to walk out hand-in-hand with me?"

"Definitely not the last," Draco said sharply. "That would mean more people would hate me than ever, and that it would be harder for you be taken seriously when you talked."

Harry smiled.

"What are you _grinning _for?" Draco hunched his shoulders as though bearing into a strong wind. "You have every right to get angry at me."

"I'm a little angry," Harry admitted. "But at least you're doing something other than panicking right now. Fine. We'll keep it secret for now, and a repeat is up to you. But that means you should get back to your bed before someone checks up on you and then comes hastening to tell me that you ran away." He raised his hand, and the stone wall next to his bed trembled and rippled. The fire that burned it softened the rocks, pushing them back at the same time, so a tunnel opened.

Draco swallowed and stared at him. "Tell me that was there a moment before," he whispered.

Harry shook his head.

"Tell me the owners of this manor built it, and I'm just now seeing it." Another whisper.

"Why should I help you lie to yourself?" Harry asked. "If anything, I'd rather encourage you to be more honest with yourself. No. I created this tunnel, but it's not very long. It'll travel with you, opening before and behind, and then close after it leads you into your room."

"You have so much _power_," Draco said, his voice so low Harry had to concentrate to hear it at all. "Why would you do this for me?"

Harry smiled. The magic sang in him, strong and pulsing beneath the surface like a volcanic explosion of its own. "Because I want to, and it hurts no one else."

Draco stood there looking at him for a moment more, as if he didn't consider that an adequate answer. Then he shook his head and walked past Harry into the tunnel. Harry got ready to manipulate the stone so it would drop shut behind Draco and close him in. While Draco was the one more likely to suffer if someone found out what had happened, Ron would probably come to check on Harry soon, too.

"Why?"

Draco had turned to look back at him, his arms folded as though he was cold-or as though he could hold the weight of the revelation that Harry would hand him away with that simple gesture. Harry met his eyes and shook his head.

"You know the reason," he said. "I've declared it several times now, and if you didn't hear it, it was because you didn't choose to listen."

Draco closed his eyes. "Say that I'm listening now," he muttered, voice as harsh as a raven's. "Say that I want to know, and that I don't think you've told me clearly enough yet."

"I'm in love with you," Harry said. "There's a lot that I would do for you, not much I wouldn't. But you're the one who has to decide how much you want that to mean. If it doesn't mean anything more than last night-" He took a deep breath, and tried not to reveal how much effort it took to do so. The thing was, of course he had to let Draco make the decisions, there was no other way that this would work or could go, but it still hurt. "Then it doesn't."

Draco turned and fled down the tunnel. _Too much honesty, _Harry thought dryly as he listened to Draco's heartbeat moving through the wall, so that he knew when he should melt more stone and when he should solidify that part of the passage Draco would no longer need. _Did the poor little Slytherin get scared? _

But even that wasn't fair, because Draco had endured far more than Harry had in the past seven years, and he had never been as bad as Harry thought even _when _his House affiliation was all Harry saw.

"I'm sorry," Harry whispered, and leaned back on his pillow, closing his eyes. He'd had little sleep last night, for a variety of reasons, and it would be wise to get some now. "But I hope you make up your bloody mind soon."

* * *

_I think we have it this time. _

George snorted and studied the design on the piece of parchment, most of which Fred had drawn by working through his hands. "That was what you thought we had last time, and it didn't work out."

_You didn't let me help last time. _

"I did so! I listened to your bloody stupid suggestions, and that mess is what resulted." George gestured around him to where the scorch marks and the marks of the chains still shone on the walls. "If you'd let me plan everything-"

_It's not my fault that you're stupid at maths-_

"Thinking lightning could be caught in a _cage, _hah, if you'd remembered symbolism was important we should have used some other way-"

_You've always ignored the obvious, _Fred snapped, in that way he had of dragging a conversation completely off target. _You approved the cage, too. So we need to find some way of capturing it that isn't a cage. What then, Mr. Genius? _George knew Fred was looking out of his eyes at their new design on the parchment, which rather resembled the Muggle things Hermione had told them about once, called roller coasters. _I think this is going to work. It's as wild as the lightning, but it'll channel it._

"If the problem is that you can't control lightning, then one design won't work any better than anything else," George complained. "And you know that Hermione told us these roller coasters are-are used for entertainment. I don't think the lightning wants to be used that way, either."

_Then come up with another way, little brother, _Fred goaded him. _You think that you're so much smarter than I am? You think that you understand all the intricacies of the symbolism that I don't? Then come up with your own design._

"I will!" George turned his back on the new design in a radical declaration of distrust and paced up and down the room, ignoring the needling sensation that was Fred poking about in the back of his brain.

_You can't figure out a way to make lightning dance on the head of a pin, let alone at Harry's command. Give it up and let me help. _Fred paused, as the full force of George's thoughts bounced back to him, and then added, _In a few hours, when you're sorry for that, I'll come back. _The sensation of him vanished.

George closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. There had to be _some _way through the paradox that he and Fred had discovered. They had to control the lightning, but lightning hated to be controlled. Or couldn't be controlled, which amounted to much the same thing. George wasn't entirely sure if they were dealing with magical sentient lightning or only a natural phenomenon that he and Fred had the same feelings about, but either way, it could cause problems.

What they almost needed, he thought grumpily, was a way to design lightning bolts themselves, designs that changed second by second, contenting any wild intelligence the lightning had and at the same time putting the kind of limitation on it that Harry would need to wield it...

George's head jerked up, and his eyes flew wide.

_It might be possible. Might._

There was a sulky stir from Fred in the back of his head. George ignored it as he ran to his desk and started flinging parchment to the sides in feverish haste, looking for an unused piece.

He had it, but it was such a fleeting thought, it would twist out of their mind in a moment. They had to get it down, now.

And _then _they would see who was the genius inventor around here.

* * *

Hermione leaned back in her chair and shook her head at the stack of parchments that stood in front of her. In one corner of her mind, she wondered why the Minister had wanted her to investigate something so ridiculous. Yes, there were prophecies that could apply to Potter if one stretched one's thoughts in a new direction and then twisted them out of shape, but the thought that any of them actually _would _was laughable. She should be doing something else, something she had the time and talent to do.

Then her mind changed and flexed, and a hot flush of shame crossed her cheeks. Who was she to think that any task the Minister set her was ridiculous? Clearwater would have her reasons. _Hermione _was the ridiculous one, the one who should be punished for doubting the Minister.

A corner of her mind grabbed and seized the ideas she was thinking of, and held them close to her chest. They were important.

But two seconds later, she had forgotten why again.

Hermione shook her head and turned to the prophecies she had thought likely to refer to Potter. They were obscure, of course, and could cover any events in the several decades since they'd been given, but there were enough close correspondences that she thought the Minister would want to see them anyway.

One said simply _Mabel Prism _at the top, presumably the name of the Seer. (If one believed in Seers. Which Hermione didn't. But the Minister had set her to this task, which must mean the Minister did believe, which must mean that they had some value). Beneath it was a rambling collection of lines, several of them crossed out. Hermione didn't know if that meant Prism had changed her mind after reciting the prophecy or if the person copying it down had made mistakes. Probably the latter. She copied the canceled lines onto her master sheet of parchment anyway, and hoped that the Minister would be happy with her for it.

_When the summer of the kings comes,_

_ When they are ripest and fullest in flower,_

_ When they swell and drip with the rot and fall to the forest floor,_

_ There shall come a stream of clear water_

_ And a fire._

_ The fire shall burn a new path,_

_ Across the earth and across the sky,_

_ And those who follow shall find_

_ Their heart's desire at the end of that path._

_ The water shall seek to quench the fire._

_ The fire shall seek to evade the water._

_ The fire shall blossom from earth and from sky,_

_ And take the fire-wielder far away._

The second line and the fourth and the ninth were crossed out. Of course the ninth was, Hermione thought scornfully. The idea that those who followed Potter would find any contentment or satisfaction, the sort that were supposed to accompany a heart's desire, were laughable.

(One part of her mind breathed rebellion and memorized the prophecy, canceled lines and all, and the other part of her mind refused to breathe the same air).

But the reference to clear water was too intriguing to pass up, so Hermione copied it. She felt a wriggle of pure pleasure pass through her, and smiled. Minister Clearwater might feel better when she realized that she was clearly meant to defend the wizarding world against Potter's ridiculousness.

The other prophecy she thought most important-in the sense that anything from a self-proclaimed Seer could be important (no, it was; yes, it was not)-didn't show anything like so clear, but Hermione had locked onto it because of the constant references to fire. This time, there was no Seer's name on the parchment. Hermione wondered if that meant it was older than the other one, so old that the person who made this copy had lost the original recording of the prophecy.

_Summer turns. Summer fails. Summer dies._

_ The end of the summer has proclaimed once before_

_ The fall of the dark one, dire at need._

_ Now the prophecy passes into ripeness,_

_ And the fire swells forth, falling in fountains._

_ He destroys the dead, he laves the living_

_ In fountains of fire, in deeds of destruction._

_ There are mountains he will move and make tremble;_

_ There are islands he will isolate further._

_ He laughs with the lightning, he soars with the storm,_

_ And like them he chooses his change from second to second._

_ Summer turns. Summer fails. Summer burns._

_ The moment when the wide wings sweep wider,_

_ When the lightning laughs and the storm swings down_

_ Is when he will choose his change for all time._

They might have until the end of the summer, then. The problem was that Hermione didn't know if the reference was literal or not. It sounded so in the second prophecy, but not in the first one, where the "summer of the kings" might be referring to the time of the Ministry, who had controlled the wizarding world like kings.

(Never. Never. She must never believe that).

Hermione gathered up her documents and left, shutting the door of the prophecy storeroom firmly behind her. She did wonder what treasures she might be leaving there, what prophecies might refer to Potter without her knowledge-

(There was one, a scrap of paper, she had glanced at and thrust down, to the bottom of the pile, forcing herself to forget-)

But she shook her head and carried the chosen documents carefully to the Minister. She was the one, with her superior intelligence and her ability to command, who must decide.


	30. Captured Lightning

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Thirty-Captured Lightning_

"Are you all right, mate?"

Harry put down his fork and smiled wryly at Ron, who was leaning forwards over the table so that he could stare at him. "It's that obvious, huh?"

"Do I want to know what's obvious?" Ron abruptly sat down in his seat and made a big production of looking at his plate and fork. "Did you have a fight with-with Malfoy?" He bravely spoke the name, though he looked as if he would rather be sick than ask the question.

Harry shrugged. "Something like that. I promise that I won't give you any details."

Ron looked as if he was bracing himself for a crash into a brick wall. "I might need to know details, to keep the revolution functioning the way it should," he said. "Especially since so many of them don't trust you now."

Harry shook his head. "Sexual details, then. You'll be the first one to know if I think Draco is a danger to anything that we're trying to achieve with the rebellion."

Ron sighed, sounding as if he had fetched the noise from the bottom of his stomach, and set his plate aside altogether. "Mate, with all due respect, I don't think you're objective enough to be sure what he wants to achieve and what he doesn't."

"That's why I would tell you," Harry said. "And you can ask for me non-sexual details any time you want, and I'll tell you, too. That way, you should be able to judge for yourself, beforehand, whether he's doing something dangerous."

Ron bit his lip, looked as if he wanted to argue for a second, and then nodded. "That's an acceptable compromise, mate." He lowered his voice and cast _Muffliato _around the table. "Not that I'm in a position to criticize you, not when I love a woman who's been hit with the Imperius Curse or something worse and is probably on the verge of betraying us as we speak."

Harry reached out and gripped his wrist tight enough that Ron flinched, but Harry didn't much care. He thought that Ron needed the reassurance right now. "You're still doing the right thing," he said. "Never doubt it, Ron. _She's _still doing the right thing. She could have betrayed a lot more than she has. We don't even know how much the Ministry knows about us, but they're not making any of the right moves."

"Unless they've decided to wait until we betray ourselves," Ron muttered, but he looked better than he had. He looked away from Harry and nodded gruffly before he squeezed his hand back and abruptly rose from the table. "There's-anything I can do for you as far as it concerns Malfoy, let me know."

"Keep people from killing him," Harry advised, standing up and meeting a few of the wary, concerned, or hopeful glances that came his way from the other revolutionaries. "Or his parents. I know that he would die without them."

"I reckon," Ron said, but he sounded bewildered. "If Mum and Dad had done things that awful, I'd give them up."

"Yes, but we won the war," Harry said gently. "If _they _had won, then you know that they would have called your parents blood traitors, and killers, and murderers, and those who defied the rightful rule of the Dark Lord. Could you really sit back and watch them be taken to prison for things that you didn't think were crimes?"

Ron made a hard gesture with one hand. "But they really _didn't _do anything wrong," he said. "Malfoy's parents _did_."

"Not his mother."

Ron screwed up his eyes and waved a hand in front of his face this time. "I hate living in this confusing borderland with all its shades of grey," he said. "Give me something to hit, and I'm happy."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Now you're undervaluing your own grasp of nuances, otherwise known as 'fishing for compliments.' It didn't work with Hermione, and it won't work with me."

Ron opened one eye and scowled at him. "Sometimes I think you're the best mate a bloke can have," he said. "And then there are these times." He heaved himself away from the table with a complaining little grunt. "Fine. If you think that I can go on, then I can believe and trust that you'll go on. Malfoy or no Malfoy."

Harry nodded, squeezed Ron's shoulder in thanks, and went away to his first conversation of the morning. Draco had suggested reaching out to other groups of allies who might help them in their struggle. Harry had asked for everyone to write down names of groups or families they knew who might be interested, and to drop the unsigned notes in a box he'd placed outside his room. He hadn't heard of half the groups mentioned, and now he was going to discuss them with former Aurors who had.

The group, when he walked into the room, included Pedlar. She saw him looking and saluted with her wand, her eyes sparking. That probably meant she was going to argue, and that she was looking forward to having a chance to pin him to the wall with her words.

Harry made sure that his grin back didn't have too many teeth, and sat down to begin the real work of the day. As long as Pedlar didn't try to hurt him or someone else, he had to tolerate her presence here. He hoped that he'd impressed her enough that she wouldn't challenge him to a duel again, and that if she used words, she was hot-headed enough that the words wouldn't be reasonable.

This was the real work of leading a revolution, he reckoned. Less glamorous, but more necessary, than calling dragons. And more boring.

It didn't help his boredom that there was a persistent ache under his ribs, as though he was missing something, as though he was supposed to be somewhere else. Harry dismissed that as the longing he had to storm the Ministry and bring everyone there to justice, and listened to Pedlar complain that more than half the groups on the list were evil. Then someone else challenged her to define "evil," and they were off.

_Oh, well. I signed up for this._

* * *

"I am very pleased with the work you have done so far, Hermione. _Very _pleased." The Minister glanced at her, smiling, and then went back to studying the prophecies that Hermione had laid in front of her.

_She doesn't have the right to call you that, _whispered the corner of her mind where she could breathe untrammeled.

But there was no reason for the corner, as she kept telling herself and which she supposed that she might one day believe. Hermione managed a small smile and bowed her head. "Thank you, Minister." Paper in her pocket bent when she reached down to touch it, but she managed to keep from pulling it out and showing it to Clearwater. The prophecies that the Minister had sent her to retrieve were obvious and silly enough. There was no point in wasting her time with something that was stupid to the point of-well, stupidity. Or making her distrust Hermione.

Clearwater spent a few minutes more sorting the prophecies, then realized she was still standing there and dismissed her with an absent wave. Hermione marched down the corridor to her new office, meeting eyes on the way and noting who bowed to her, who avoided her gaze, who stared at her with open scorn, and who nodded in quiet respect. She wondered if that was the same set of signals that Potter had to watch out for, in his revolution.

She wondered how she could find out.

When she got into her office, a large pigeon was waiting on the windowsill. Hermione sniffed in disdain, but permitted it to stay there. She reckoned that it wouldn't last long; the owls always swooping about the Ministry on their delivery of _important _messages would eat it. But there was no reason for cruelty to dumb animals, so it might as well stay there.

She even tossed it an owl treat when it hopped down into her office and strutted back and forth on the desk, looking meaningfully at her piles of papers and reports. The pigeon snatched the treat and fluttered back to the windowsill that looked out on nothing real, but soon enough started stretching its neck and ruffling its feathers there. Hermione leaned back in her chair and looked at it.

"I don't know what you want," she said. "And I don't know why you came here, of all places."

Her fingers were moving as she spoke, pulling out a small piece of paper and folding it up. The pigeon perked up when it saw the paper, bobbing its head and cooing. Hermione rolled her eyes. It was obvious now that someone had trained the poor stupid thing to carry messages, and that it was going mad without something to deliver. Of course, if they had taken care of the pigeon in the first place, then this wouldn't have happened. Hermione's mother had told her that over and over when she asked for a kitten or a puppy as a child. She couldn't have one unless she promised to take care of it, not forget it in a week and make her parents take care of it.

"All the people who work here are adults, though," she told the pigeon. "You'd think they would know better."

She tossed the little scrap of parchment at the pigeon. It snatched it out of the air, and for a second Hermione was afraid that the bird would eat it. But instead, it waggled its wings and took off.

Hermione watched it go, and chuckled grimly. She could at least hope that it would return to the home of the person who had trained it, and hammer at their windows until they let it in. Hopefully it would then zoom around the room like Pig, and they would have to calm it down before they could take the message.

Not that the message was important, of course. It was something Hermione had only done to entertain the bird. But maybe it would teach the pigeon's owner the benefits of keeping a pet at home instead of letting it wander away.

She went back to work, steadily filing reports and putting papers away with sober attention to detail. She was proud of herself. The Minister could trust her, and that was the reason she had chosen Hermione for this job. When Hermione began, once again, to study the rumors that were circulating about Potter with a view to writing a new pamphlet, she hoped the Minister would remember her efforts and promote her to a grander position soon.

She _knew _she could do more damage against Potter and his "revolution." She just had to prove that she could, and for that, she needed a chance.

* * *

_There's no guarantee that this one will work, and you know it._

George took a long, careful breath, and did his best to ignore Fred's jeer. "This is different," he whispered, watching the platform in the middle of the lab from which clouds jetted into the air. "You know it is. You just don't want to acknowledge how creative I am."

Fred snorted, and said nothing more about it. That left it up to George to observe their new machine and try, half-desperately, to convince himself that it was going to work to capture the lightning.

The platform was studded with holes, beneath which hung pouches of water and small, ever-burning braziers. The water billowed up through the holes, turned to steam, and the steam formed various images, shaped and sculpted by the shape of the holes, which looked like animals, like trees, like musical instruments, like the lightning itself. The air was heavy with the song and feel of magic.

George finally stepped back and picked up another lump of jade, running his fingers over it and trying not to remember what had happened to the other one. Yes, it had become smoking and charred, but that had been because the fundamental concept of the first machine they had invented was wrong. Now they understood more about symbolism and the logic of symbolism, and they wouldn't use something so profoundly wrong again.

_You still think that Harry will be able to control this? _Fred's voice had a mocking tone that George had usually only heard when his twin was daring him to do something stupid on a broom. _I don't know whether to laugh at you or hide in the back of your head and hope that it doesn't blow off your shoulders. _

George paused, and laid down the lump of jade. He heard Fred give something that might have been a sigh of relief.

"You're right," George said softly. "You're absolutely right. We shouldn't be the ones trying to use the machine, not if the whole purpose is for it to be a weapon for Harry. We should be the ones to introduce him to the machine, and nothing else. He needs to wield the jade for himself." He turned and took off running in the direction of the lab door.

Fred yelped as though he was a physical being to be jostled when George wrenched open the door. _People are staring at us, _he hissed in George's ear as George bolted past them and towards the meeting rooms where he knew Harry was likely to be at this time of the day.

"What do I care?" George asked, though he did speak under his breath. That was an advantage his brother had over him, at least as far as his current form went. No one could hear him when he made a mistake, or find his body to taunt him with it.

_You know where his body is. It's buried in the Battle Memorial with the rest-_

George shook his head, hard, and the voice that wasn't his brother's and wasn't his own vanished from his mind. He was glad. It wasn't the done thing to listen to voices.

He reached Harry's door, by which time he had acquired a small crowd of curious revolutionaries. George knocked, and waited. No matter how much the idea mattered, no matter how exciting it was, he wasn't about to burst in there when Harry might be having a tense confrontation with someone else. From what Fred and George could remember, Pedlar was probably part of this meeting, and she wasn't someone who would take her previous reprimand well. If she could find an excuse to get Harry in trouble, such as that his friends weren't serious enough and didn't really want the revolution to succeed, then she would take it.

Harry opened the door, and stared at George in disconcerting silence for a moment. George nodded and stepped into the meeting room, ignoring the combination of hostile and wondering stares from the table. "Harry, do you have a minute?" he asked. "I found something that I think will make your life a lot easier."

"Of course he did," Pedlar drawled, before Harry could say anything. "And of course that discovery must come right in the middle of an important meeting, before we can address the substance of our complaints."

Harry didn't do much. He just turned and glanced over his shoulder at her. But Pedlar shut her eyes and turned her head away. George told himself to find out, later, exactly what Harry had done. It could be useful when he invented a machine to shut up stupid people, which had been on their agenda for years.

"I am interested, George," Harry said quietly. His eyes seemed to focus in the middle of George's forehead for a second, and he smiled. "And Fred. But I can't leave the meeting right now. When I can? We'll meet, and you'll discuss this?"

George restrained the tendency to snap that they needed Harry's attention right away, and that it was so important that Harry should put off dealing with people like Pedlar, who would never be satisfied anyway. He nodded tersely and backed off a step. Harry smiled and reached out to squeeze his arm, then quietly shut the door. George stood there, ignoring the muffled snickers of his audience.

Then he smiled. He had Harry's attention, and Harry wasn't dismissing him as mad because he could still hear and talk to Fred, the way so many people did. That was about the best he could ask for at the moment. He turned and walked calmly back to their lab, head held high. The crowd trailed him part of the way there, and then fell away as though they had suddenly remembered that they had pressing business elsewhere.

When George closed the door and stood alone in front of their machine, his brother murmured from the back of his mind, _We can use the time to make modifications to the machine. _

George nodded. "We can." And he set about prowling around the edges again, making sure that there were no blurred or indistinct edges to the shapes, making sure that the smoke and steam came up in the right ways.

They could use this time to make the machine better than ever, so that it _would _capture the lightning when it was time to use it. They could always do that.

* * *

Draco spent most of the morning hiding in his rooms, and not ashamed to admit that that was what he was doing.

Well, when he thought about it, who in the world would miss him? He wasn't an important part of the factions forming in the revolution, because no one-except Potter, and maybe Weasley-trusted him. He had to guard his parents, so he couldn't really take on duties that would remove him from this part of the manor even if he wanted to and someone would offer them to him. He could stay there all day, and no one would notice or care.

Or so he thought, until someone knocked on his door at mid-morning. Draco grimaced and shuffled over, casting charms that would smooth down his hair and freshen his breath and clean his skin. He had gone back to sleep for a short time after returning from Potter's chambers, because he had nothing better to do, and was still wearing yesterday's clothes.

They weren't up to the standards of a Malfoy. But then, Draco was starting to think that nothing in the world was, at least if his parents had kept the true Malfoy standards and he had only clung to a crumpled dream of them.

He opened the door, and blinked when he found Weasley there. Weasley nodded and shifted from foot to foot as if he couldn't believe that he was here, either, and wanted to be gone before someone noticed him standing in front of Draco's door. "Can I come in, Malfoy?" he asked.

Partially because he was speechless with surprise anyway, and partially because he was wondering how much Potter had told his best mate, Draco nodded and stepped aside. Weasley gave a brief glance at the furnishings as he moved in. An Auror's glance, Draco thought, adapted to figuring out hiding places and the best weapons to use in case of ambush. He stared at Draco again soon enough, though, and there was intensity in his face that made Draco wince and raise his head. He was used to these kinds of attacks from Ministry officials, the attacks that reminded him that, as far as they were concerned, he shouldn't even be walking around free, never mind all the other things they would probably accuse him of.

"You probably wonder what I'm doing here." Weasley held his hands low, in front of him, but in a position that would make it hard for him to reach his wand. _Done to reassure me, _Draco thought, and had to work his jaws to answer around a horrible mix of bile and gratitude.

"No," he said. "I know that you would never visit me just because you wanted to know how I was, or how my father was. This visit has something to do with Potter. Doesn't it," he added, because Weasley was standing still and staring at him in speechlessness of his own.

Weasley wavered one hand back and forth, then shook his head and sighed. "Yeah, it does."

"Of course," Draco said, and folded his arms, doing his best to lounge back against a corner of his bedroom wall. "You can't fool me into thinking that you care about me for my own sake."

Weasley rolled his eyes, which wasn't supposed to happen. "You would be bloody hard to care for even if I _did_," he said. "Listen. I don't really care if you two sleep together, or-" He flushed, which rather belied his words. "All I'd ask is that you not make the political situation harder on him," he finished in a rush. "Don't break your oath, don't do something stupid because you think it would improve your parents' situation, and don't try to use your power over him to win your own advantages. I really think most of the revolution would kill you and your parents before he could stop them."

Draco stared at him. Weasley stared back, restless and miserable, but apparently asking for that.

And nothing more than that.

Draco had to shut his eyes and turn away. He didn't think that he could face the faith shining in Weasley's expression. Faith in _him_. He hadn't asked Draco not to murder Potter, not to hurt him. He hadn't come to threaten him if Potter did get hurt. He was only asking Draco not to do things that it was in his best interest not to do anyway, since they would weaken the only powerful ally he had.

And at the same time Weasley understood why he might have the temptation to do them, _understood _why his parents were so important to him.

"I won't," Draco said, and then stopped, because he hated how unsteady his voice sounded. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I won't hurt him that way. I'll do my very best to stop back if I think that I'm on the verge of it. But if you see me tending in some direction that might hurt me and him without knowing it because I don't know the rest of the players in the rebellion, then tell me. Cough. Give me a warning glance. Something."

Weasley said nothing. Draco looked back at him, thinking he was finally strong enough for that, and found that he was blinking, in turn, his face softened from whatever mask he'd hardened it to.

"You'd-do that," Weasley said. "Keep yourself in check for him."

"I'd _try_," Draco said, a bit nervous. The bad part of having a Gryffindor on your side was that they started thinking you could provide the same miracles they were capable of. "That doesn't mean that I'd really be able to do it, you know."

Weasley was still looking at Draco as if he were a wonder, and it seemed to cost him a bit to nod and look down and away. "But trying means a lot," he said quietly.

Then he did something Draco hadn't known was coming, and would have avoided if he had. An embrace, he could have dodged. It was the sort of over-the-top gesture that he suspected Weasley of wanting to make, and, well, they weren't friends like that. They were really only united by their concern for Potter and that he not falter, if you thought about it, and those similar concerns came from distinctly different roots.

But instead, Weasley reached out and clenched Draco's wrist, once, hard, the sort of gesture no one had done for Draco in years.

He was out of the room before Draco could react. He shut the door slowly, with a shaking hand, and leaned against it.

Yes, there was life beyond the end of his quest to free his parents.

He just hadn't realized what sort of life it was.


	31. Coming Forth

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Thirty-One-Coming Forth_

"What have you invented this time?" Harry let the door of the lab fall carefully shut behind him. The last time he had shut it hard, he had made a series of chiming silver instruments collapse. George had brushed it off as reparable, but Harry was worried about making it out of the room alive, sometimes.

George looked up and grinned at him, then stepped back so that Harry could see the giant metal platform with smoke coming out of it in the middle of the lab. Harry blinked. "We've invented something that should help you control the lightning stag you've seen," George said, and held out something to him.

Harry accepted it and turned it over in his hands. It was a jagged jade lightning bolt, the size and shape of the one on his forehead. He shot George a questioning look, and George nodded to his brow.

"Symbolism is important here," George said quietly. The playfulness had gone out of him, and he was watching Harry with an intensity that was hard to bear. "We tried several unsuccessful experiments without paying attention to the symbolism. This time, we did. The curse scar is the first thing that predisposed you to being different from the norm. And the lightning is something else that does the same thing. We think you can control it best with an object in the same shape and size."

Harry waved a hand to show that he got that, and then paused when he realized that George was backing away. "What should I expect to happen?" he asked, looking over at a cloud of steam that was in the shape of a stag. For a moment, superhumanly intelligent eyes seemed to shine at him out of its face, the way they had from the face of the stag in the sky.

"The lightning to come," George said.

_Well, that's simple enough, _Harry thought ruefully. _If dangerous. _He hesitated only a moment or so more, then took a deep breath and pressed the jade lightning against his scar.

There was a moment of silent brilliance, when Harry felt as though he had opened a third eye in his forehead and was gazing at a future full of that light. Then the room around him seemed to turn and rumble. The smoke and steam coming out of George's invention puffed faster. And all the shapes-even the ones that had been something else at first-turned into stags. There was a cavalcade of them dancing above the machine, striking sparking hooves on air.

Harry felt something immense and slow stir above him, and turn its attention in his direction.

He swallowed. He could feel the mind behind that attention, or at least he thought he could. It had a flicker of flat amusement running through it, and less resonance and depth than he would have expected of a "real" mind. Of course, he also wasn't sure what he should expect a "real" mind to feel like. The only mind he'd ever been in contact with before was Voldemort's, and that wasn't comparable.

The mind came down from the clouds towards him. Harry could feel that, the way it was extending, the sparks it carried with it. He almost wanted to choke on the intense feeling of fire, in fact. He wondered dazedly if his magic had taken the form of fire for this reason, so that he could survive an encounter with a mind so deadly.

The air around him began to brew and glow. Harry started to take a step back, and then made himself stop. The piece of jade on his forehead felt hot against his skin, cool against his palm when he reached up and touched it. Harry shivered, and felt the mind from the clouds orient on him even more than it already had.

"George. Fred." His voice was unnaturally high. He cleared his throat. That was strange. He had almost thought that he _couldn't _be afraid anymore. "Are you sure about what's going to happen?"

"No, mate," George said gently, and in a voice that didn't sound exactly like the one that he usually used to address Harry. "Not at all. But we thought that we had to try, and now-"

_Now_.

Reality itself seemed to speak that word. The past changed, and the word was in Harry's skull with him, clanging around his brain, making giant silver pendulums swing to chime in tune with it, making him cry out and clutch at his temples. His head was too small for this. It would have to grow, and he didn't know what would happen to him when it did, whether his brain would spill out of his ears or the sound would go on, growing, devouring the world, making it impossible for him to-

_Neither. _

That word was everywhere, in all directions. Harry opened his eyes and wasn't entirely surprised to see that the interior of the lab, and presumably the manor beyond it, had vanished. He floated in a sea of stars, so brilliant that it was hard to make out the darkness beyond them, his lungs aching as he sought to draw a breath. Or was he breathing? It was hard to make out, with his head aching from the echoes of the great voice and the mind still brushing over his in gentle flutters, but pressing down more and more as it settled further into him.

_Here you are. _

Three words drove Harry to his knees, although he felt nothing beneath them. Of course he didn't, he thought snappishly at himself, floating in a void as he was. He would have tried to stand, but there didn't seem to be much point. He had to crouch there and wait for what came next. He certainly didn't control that immense mind, or the pace at which it chose to interact with him.

_You are more important than you think._

Those words trampled the breath from his lungs, the defiance from his mind, the ability to stand upright from him. Harry reached out and braced his weight on his hands, even though there was nothing there to brace weight on. Perhaps the stars generated their own kind of gravity, he thought, more than half-crazily. Perhaps that was what made the surface he was kneeling on.

The voice said nothing else. Instead, the mind seemed to hover above him. Like the mind of a dragon in the clouds, Harry thought. That was what it reminded him of more than anything else: a great neck extending down to him, and on the end of it a brain that hummed with power, with magic, with fire.

Perhaps the defenses he had perfected against the dragons would avail him now, then. With his hands shaking, he spun clumsily, the fire vaulting between his fingers and hanging there in a weave of smeared colors. He held it up for the mind's delectation, though he did think it might have seen his soul already.

No response. But the amusement skittered along his nerves, and Harry shivered, to realize how deeply the mind had already gone into him, to realize that it could do anything it wanted to him.

_What _are _you?_ he asked in silent despair.

_Your future._

The air in front of him burned with both light and heat, and the stag appeared, pawing the ground or the air or the gravity, its nostrils flaring out as it looked at him. Sparks and small bolts danced between the tines of its antlers. The hooves shone with a blue-white, shadowless light that meant Harry had to look away, wincing. It trotted closer to him and lowered its head so that a literally shocking nose nudged his cheek.

_The prophecy. There is a second. Bringing you into the future. Bringing you away._

"I don't know what that means," Harry gasped aloud, because somehow it seemed important to disassociate himself from the silent communication the stag, or the future, or the lightning, was using. "I have responsibilities here. The future of the revolution. Being a good leader." _Draco, _he thought but didn't say, the name aching through him as if it were a wound punched beneath his breastbone.

_You must leave them. You must come away._

And a vision came to him, not words: a starry void opening in front of Harry, a road of lightning leading away through it. The road shed constant sparks, but new lightning was always springing up to replace what was lost, and he knew it would endure for far longer than his feet would need to walk it.

"No." His voice croaked. He swallowed back some of the fear he was experiencing and tried again. "No, I don't believe you. There was never anything like that when I defeated Voldemort."

The stag pranced in front of him, and tossed its antlers. The immense voice in his head was silent. Harry heard what it was saying without needing to hear it: this was different. He didn't have to die this time, though if he had stayed dead that would have constituted its own kind of leaving behind. He had to leave.

And where did the lightning road lead?

More amusement sparked along his nerves, and nothing else. The future wouldn't tell him, Harry reckoned. Maybe that was why it was the future. Though if that was the case, it seemed a little unfair of it to reveal itself to him, hint and taunt, and do nothing else.

"Is this happening because I already had one prophecy made about me?" he asked.

The stag shook its antlers fiercely and took a step towards him. Harry glared back at it, almost too angry to be afraid. He didn't _know _whether it was a stupid question to ask or not. Why should he? He didn't know anything about what he was supposed to do or be in this context. It wasn't as though he had started the revolution knowing that he would have to leave it behind.

Then he paused.

_If I have to._

The image of the lightning road hammered insistently into his mind. Yes, fine, the future and the stag at least were convinced that he would have to. That didn't mean that he had to tamely surrender to what they asked of him.

He slammed one fist into the gravity in front of him and climbed to his feet. The stag danced back from him, as if it could feel the fury that clung around his body like his own snapping electric aura. Harry bared his teeth at it in a sneer. Yes, it _should _run. It should get away from him while it was still safe to do so.

"I refuse to accept what you've told me," he told it quietly. "I refuse to give in and be nothing more than your _tool_."

The stag pawed the ground in agitation again, and out of the silence came the feeling that this wasn't meant as a punishment or to make him into a tool. It was simply what was going to happen, and if he resisted it, then he would be pressed and crushed into shape the way anyone would be who stood in the way of a boulder rolling downhill.

Harry didn't think they could do anything to him at the moment, though. He reached up, caught the dangling thread of reality that still remained to him, and yanked, hard.

He went flying out of the vision, and found himself shaking in every bone as he knelt on the floor of the lab. If he'd been thrown into it from a great height, he might have felt the same way, he thought, lifting his head for a gasp.

"Harry? You all right, mate?"

Harry looked up and smiled weakly at George. He knelt over Harry, and his eyes were as wide as full moons. He seemed concerned he might honestly have hurt Harry. "Yeah," he said. "It was just-strange, what I experienced." He hesitated, then decided that he had to ask, no matter how mad it sounded. "Did I disappear, or go anywhere? Did you see anything?"

* * *

_Something is wrong, _Fred hissed into the back of his mind, apparently forgetting all the problems that he'd had lately with talking to his smarter brother. _Did you see how pale his face has turned? _

George nodded, both in answer to Fred and in reassurance to Harry. "We saw the lightning coiling around you, and once or twice you said something, but in a thin voice, very far away. I didn't think that you wanted us to overhear what you were saying." He paused, then gave in to his curiosity. "What happened? Did you go somewhere?"

Harry stood up, forcing George to move backwards. George kept his eyes on him, though. Yes, something had happened. Harry's hands were shaking when he reached up to pry the jade off his forehead, and he held it and stared at it as though it had betrayed him.

_We can change the symbol, if we need to, _Fred said anxiously. They had already decided that the jade lightning bolt was the better choice for Harry's first experiment with the machine than the eye-shaped lump. There were other changes that could be made. _If he doesn't like it. I should have remembered. The lightning bolt probably reminds him of Voldemort and the war. _

_Why should you have remembered, when I didn't? _George asked.

_Because I'm the smarter one. _

George rolled his eyes, glad that Fred would feel it as well as see it from his position in George's head, and said gently, "Harry, you're scaring us here, mate. Are you _sure _that nothing happened?"

Harry looked up at him, biting his lip. George waited. It wasn't like Harry to be silent for long. He usually didn't have any trouble talking about what he experienced with their inventions, because he knew that Fred and George needed the feedback to make the machines better. And he knew that lives would depend on them if they worked in the revolution.

"I was hearing an immense voice," Harry said. "It claimed to be the future, reaching down to find me. It also said that I was destined to leave everyone, to walk away on a sort of road made of lightning. I didn't understand most of it." Already a healthy scowl was coming back onto his face, and he kicked at the floor, which reassured George. As long as Harry could defy what frightened him, the rest could follow him into that defiance. "I don't want to go, I know that."

_Told you, _Fred whispered in what sounded like ecstasy, which only meant that he couldn't actually have been listening to the content of Harry's words. _I told you that he was connected to some greater force, and that we'd see him walking away, waving good-bye to us, soon enough._

George ignored his brother, because he wasn't helping, and focused on Harry. "Do you have any reason to believe the voice?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't know. It sounded like it was speaking the truth, and it _pressed _on me." He glanced at his arms, as if expecting to see the marks of large clamps that had held him down. "I know that I've never experienced anything like that before. The first prophecy that wanted me at least had the courtesy not to scoop me up and haul me into bloody _visions._"

George gave him a cautious smile. If Harry could joke about this, then he thought they stood a chance of recovering from it, of beating it. "Did you see the lightning stag?"

"As well as the lightning road. Yes." Harry stared at the piece of jade that he'd handed back to George. "But none of it seemed to want to obey me. It only told me that I had to leave, because-I had to. And it gave me the feeling that it would crush me if I defied it." Harry grinned, and it was a low, vicious grin. Flickers of flame danced along the sides of his fingers. "Well, fuck _that_."

George nodded approvingly to him. He disliked all the chains that people tried to place on him, too: trying to drag him away from the past, trying to drag him away from his brother, telling him that he had some kind of fucking _duty _to sit up and smile and join the "working world" again. George had to wonder how many inventions _they'd _created in the past few years, how much they knew about the labor he and Fred had done and how it had supported the revolution.

"And it-it made me try to think about myself as a victim," Harry said, in the tones of wonder that someone would use when uncovering a stupid person's deception. "That was the worst part of it. When I knew the prophecy about Voldemort, one of the things I had to fight against was the temptation to just give in to fear. It said I had to die, or Voldemort did. Nothing about how to defeat him, no clues about what I would eventually have to do. This prophecy is doing the same thing, except it doesn't tell me where I'm going if I take that road, or why I've been 'chosen' for this particular stupid honor. It just wants me to give in and drag me along." Harry shook his head, and the look on his face had altered. George wasn't entirely sure he knew how to read it. "Fuck that," he repeated, and his words were softer and stronger.

_I don't think he can resist it, _Fred whispered. _I mean, if it's prophecy, it's fate. And it's different, fighting fate, than fighting a Dark Lord. _

"There are all sorts of prophecies that never came true," George said aloud, as part of his argument with Fred and to answer Harry. "Divination is an imprecise art. If it wasn't, then people would use it a lot more often."

"There are all sorts of prophecies that people claim only came true because they could find _something _in the words that sounded right, so they twisted them as hard as possible." Harry's voice was softer than ever, and he stared over George's head at the far wall. "It's not going to twist _me_."

_I don't like this, _Fred whined. _Who knows what kind of havoc he could cause if he actually fights fate and wins? _

_A moment ago, you were going on about that being impossible._

_ If someone could manage to find a way to fight fate, it would be our Harry, _Fred said, with a brief flutter of returning spirit that George hoped would last longer than it did. Instead, it blew out like a candle, and Fred added anxiously a moment later, _But you don't think he will, do you?_

George rolled his eyes and turned back to look at Harry. "Good," he said simply. "But I don't know what that means for our machine. Do you think you can use it to get in contact with the lightning, or would that be too dangerous?"

Harry bared teeth that looked like he was going to bite straight through the machine as he stared at it. George resisted the temptation to put himself defensively between Harry and their creation, but only just barely.

"The lightning knows where I am now," Harry said. "And who I am, and what I want. I don't think it would be a good idea to go about attracting its attention again, not to mention that there's no reason for me to try and tame it when it doesn't want to be tamed." He eyed the machine for a moment more, then flung himself around to face the door so abruptly that George started. "Thank you for doing what you could. At least it told me that I had another enemy out there, and that's not a small thing."

He reached out and squeezed George's arm with a hand so strong it seemed metallic, then disappeared out the door. George stood there, rubbing his arm, and listened to Harry striding up the corridor. He really didn't make that much noise, but behind each step now, George could hear the strength of the strides. God knew what Harry would actually do now that he had this information.

_Something bad. _

Even if that was true, it still didn't make George more patient with Fred's whinging. "Come on," he said, facing the lightning machine again and dipping his wand so that the fires would stop burning and sending up the clouds of steam. "We should get around to inventing that machine to shut stupid people up. I think Harry's going to need that one pretty soon."

_What about a machine to stop people who fight fate? _

George rolled his eyes and reached out to begin the long task of pouring the water out from the pouches beneath the holes. "Are you going to help? Or should I keep the credit of inventing this device all to myself?"

_You will anyway._

"Right, go back to your part of the brain until you can behave."

Fred sulked away, and George shook his head, hands moving quickly and skillfully as new ideas began to pop up in his mind. Fred really was incredibly _childish _sometimes, especially for someone who supposedly knew more than George thanks to a few more minutes of being in the world and a much longer time of traveling beyond life.

* * *

Of course, the one person Draco would _have _to see when he finally ventured out of his rooms to fetch food for himself and his parents was Potter.

A pigeon had landed on the windowsill in front of him and was strutting back and forth, cooing. Potter was holding a piece of parchment and reading it. His face had gone drawn, Draco thought, lingering behind a corner where Potter wouldn't look up and immediately see him. (Though he had to wonder how much of a defense that would be, when Potter's magic had so far told him exactly where Draco would be hiding numerous times). Draco could see the bones pressing tautly against the skin, and he thought that hadn't been the case just a short time before.

Potter nodded at no one and crumpled the parchment in his hand. Then he looked out past the pigeon to the manor's gardens, which were stained with brilliant sunlight at the moment. He leaned his head against the window and reached out to absently scratch the pigeon. It nipped at his fingers, but didn't move.

Draco started to edge down the corridor behind Potter. Whatever bad news he'd received, it would probably occupy him too much to look around.

But Potter's head craned around as if he'd heard the thought, and his eyes fastened on Draco.

Draco froze for a second. Then he jerked his head up and glared back at Potter. He had the right to walk through the manor if he wanted to. They hadn't yet taken that from him, no matter what else they'd done.

Potter only gave him a faint smile and nodded, as though to say that he was glad to see someone going about their ordinary lives-as ordinary as Draco's life was at the moment. Then he turned around, scratched the pigeon on the head, and walked towards the part of the manor where his own rooms lay.

Draco stood there, blinking after him. It was just as much acknowledgment as he could have wished, Potter neither ignoring Draco like a leper or insisting on greeting him effusively, presuming on the fact that they'd slept together.

Which made the ache in his chest incomprehensible.


	32. By the Light of the Future

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Thirty-Two-By the Light of the Future_

"You still aren't listening to us."

Pedlar had cornered Harry at the latest meeting before he could slip out the door. Harry made sure that his face was calm and he was smiling slightly before he turned around. Pedlar was recovering from his attempts to intimidate her faster and faster, and now there were plenty of people watching him critically for the next time that he used magic on her.

And probably anxious to leave, for that matter.

Harry would do his best not to scare any more people away from the revolution. He needed them. They were the ones who did the fighting, who put Ron's strategies into practice, who had been bold enough to follow him on dragons into Azkaban. But on the other hand, if they wouldn't do _anything _he asked of them without endless discussion, then he didn't see how much more of his time he should waste courting them. None of them had better suggestions than the first few they'd offered up. They'd wasted three hours last night on a debate about what they should _call _themselves, as if that was the only thing they could talk about that was of any value.

Pedlar thrived in such an atmosphere, though. Already she could meet his eyes without flinching, and he thought her smile had an extra bright shine to it, like the light in Muggle cartoons that flashed off characters' teeth. She had her hands hooked now as if she would seize his throat.

But the others had all left, which meant that whatever he said to her, it wouldn't occur in front of witnesses. She could tell stories later, of course, but she always could, and Harry had become almost accustomed to that, as well as the way the stories would warp his behavior beyond recognition. He met her eyes and waited.

"You haven't done anything about putting our plans into action," Pedlar said softly. She took a step nearer, and it crossed Harry's mind to wonder what Ron would think if he walked in and saw them now. Perhaps that being involved with Draco wasn't the worst thing that could happen to Harry. "You haven't acted on the suggestions we gave you all those weeks ago, let alone the more recent ones since."

"If I had, then you would have accused me of dashing into action without taking the advice of the council," Harry murmured. That was what they had decided to call themselves, the council, this group of men and women who wanted names more than they wanted plans. "There's no way to win."

"Should you be thinking about _winning _when it comes to your own followers?" The light spilled out of Pedlar's smile now, tainting her eyes and making them shine like quivering flames. "I don't think so. I think that you should have learned the difference between fighting the Ministry and fighting us."

"Because one's easier?" Harry knew that he shouldn't have let her push him to this extreme even as he said it. It was stupid and silly. He shouldn't give her words that much weight. He should simply smile at her when she said she wanted to see him alone and told her to invite as many people as she wanted. Yes, of course she would twist the stories about him, and so would other people.

If they were _always _going to do it, no matter what gestures he made to appease them, then he should simply go ahead and do what he wanted, and worry about how many people followed him later.

"Careful," Pedlar breathed. She edged in again, and now she was very definitely within the small bubble that Harry considered his personal space. "Someone could think you were making a threat."

"They would if they listened to you tell the story," Harry said. Her hand still didn't touch her wand, but he had noticed the way that she was aiming it at a pocket in her robes, as though she had some other surprise to pull out. He didn't think anyone else in the revolution possessed the same inventive skill that George and Fred did, though, or that they would have let a theft from their labs go unreported. "How sad that not everyone listens to you."

Pedlar tried hard to look offended, but her smile was too broad. "How sad that you're caught up in a personal rivalry, instead of doing your best to lead the revolution to victory," she murmured, and then her hand darted to her pocket.

Harry's fire leaped up around him in a singing, singeing cloak. He kept it from extending further than that, though. If Pedlar had hoped that she would leave the room with a burn to prove all her stories about how evil he was, he managed to deny her that much.

Pedlar's hand retracted, empty. Harry understood then. Her movement had been a distraction, trying to make him react before he thought and show that he was dangerous to more than just the few people who regularly listened to Pedlar. She hadn't counted on how much control Harry had over his fire.

_Too many people, _Harry thought, meeting her rapid blinks and holding back a sneer with effort, _hear the words "wild magic" and think that somehow they've got one over on me because they'll challenge me and see it._

They stood there in the light of the flames for a few moments, and then Harry bowed to her and stepped back. "If you want to report something to the others," he said, "you'll have to think of a different ploy. Good day." He turned away.

He heard the faint swish of cloth through air, and knew that Pedlar was trying to stick her hand in the flames so she could claim he'd burned her deliberately. Harry let his teeth show, and held the flames securely in place. Her hand soared through them and clapped him on the back, and then she made a disgusted noise.

"So your fire is all light and no heat," she muttered, pulling her hand away and shaking it as though it stung while Harry glanced back at her, though he knew the fire hadn't hurt her at all. That was the point. He had such precise control of it, thanks to the "useless" books he'd read, that it was no longer wild in any true sense of the word.

"If you want to put it that way," Harry told her. "Now, don't you have minions waiting for you to spread the terrible word about how much I hurt you? I'd think you'd want to get back to them."

Pedlar stared at him, and there was hatred in her eyes, hot and flaring in all the ways his fire wasn't. Harry stared back at her in wonder. He didn't know how someone he was so little concerned with could hate him so much, when he felt next to nothing for her.

Perhaps that was the problem. Pedlar wanted an equal connection with him, the connection of being a hated enemy if not his trusted adviser. And when he denied her that, when he balked her, she took out her temper on him.

Luckily, she knew there was nothing she could say in this situation that wouldn't make her look ridiculous. She stalked out of the meeting room, robes floating behind her in the way Snape's often had. Harry grinned at the thought. He doubted Snape would find the comparison flattering, which was of course at least part of the point of making it.

"Potter."

Harry raised an eyebrow. He had assumed that some of Pedlar's minions would come to clamor at him, or perhaps that Ron would be waiting to deliver a report on the rebellion's mind. Instead, Draco stood there, his shoulders hunched and arms folded as if the room was colder than the corridor. He watched Harry's eyes and straightened with a snap, chin rising.

Harry smiled. Where Pedlar reached for false dignity to carry around with her, Draco had the real thing, no matter how scarred. "Draco," he said, and he couldn't have kept the warmth out of his voice if he tried. His fire bent to point at Draco, and Draco's heartbeat sounded in his ears. "Can I help you?"

"You sound as though you should be working in Diagon Alley, not leading a revolution," Draco muttered, but he leaned forwards anyway, his eyes wide and anxious. Harry waited for him, feeling a thrill prickle up and down his spine. Being this close to Draco was _exciting. _And not in the ways that Ron would probably insist on thinking of, pervert that he was. "How sure are you that Pedlar will let you stay leader?"

"Do you mean that she'll attack me and force me out?" Harry shook his head. "I think I've frightened her too badly. She's trying to make me strike her so that I look like the villain, not because she's anxious to face me in a duel. And if enough people believe her, then I suppose that might be possible."

Draco's hands clenched twice. "And what _does _happen, if that happens? Particularly to the people around you who have supported you in the past? Do you think Pedlar and her rabble are eager to let me and my parents live?"

Harry had to roll his eyes, even though warmth filled the center of his throat. _Self-centered as always, thinking about the ways he would survive even though he has more immediate problems. _"Then I would use my life to defend you, and them, and Ron, and anyone else who still wanted to follow me," he said. "And my magic, which is more to the point."

"You don't have enough power to do that," Draco said. "To hold off a mob, I mean," he clarified, when Harry cocked his head at him. "No one does."

Harry held out his hands. Fire showered from one palm to the other in an elegant arch, a trick that he couldn't have done when he first began trying to control his wild magic, in the aftermath of burning Duplais. Draco snorted and started to say something, but fell silent as the arches multiplied and thinned at the same time, until twenty-four rainbows of gleaming flame shone on Harry's hands.

Draco swallowed. Harry nodded to him. Draco was wise enough to know that it wasn't the _form _of magic that made it impressive, in this case, but the finesse and control implied by the number and size of the arches.

"I can do this," Harry said, and then folded his hands inwards and banished the magic as if it had never blazed there. "I can do more than that when someone I love is threatened."

Draco paled as though someone had slammed him up against a wall, and then shook his head. "I don't-you don't love my parents."

"But other people that I mentioned?" Harry took a step closer to him, wondering if Draco would finally let him talk about what had happened between them. His belly heated when he thought about it, and his groin, and his chest. "Yes, I do love them. And I would defend them."

* * *

_I came looking for a political conversation, not this, _Draco thought, and swallowed again. He didn't know whether he was swallowing nausea or exhilaration. Neither had any place here. He could almost hear his father's voice hissing at him about how weak he was, to fall prey to something like this, the delusions that Potter told himself and others. Real revolutions weren't won with love and wild magic. They fizzled out in compromise, or succeeded and were back to the natural way of pure-blood domination within a generation.

Except that Draco didn't think that the world had ever seen a revolution led by someone like Harry Potter.

Now that Draco was close to him and not pretending anymore, he couldn't deny the magic that shimmered around Potter like a corona of invisible flame. He was gasping in the heated air, working his mouth and nose open at the same time, close to stumbling. And that was just from being close to it.

If he was closer? If Potter was to take Draco in his arms and press his mouth to his?

Draco shook his head. That was the kind of thing he couldn't imagine, that he had no business imagining. Not because it couldn't happen but simply because there was no reason for him to think he would ever get it again.

Potter wanted more than he could give, the kind of committed and loving relationship that Draco saw between his parents. And he couldn't do that. He couldn't choose something that would shut the last of the Malfoys out as thoroughly as that, even if they had chosen one that shut _him _out.

"Sorry," he whispered, ducking his head and avoiding the way Potter stared at him. "You don't need me bringing this up when you have to concentrate on handling Pedlar and her threats." He moved a step away, feeling as though tar clung to his foot when he lifted it from the floor.

"I can handle them for days on end and still have time for touching you."

Potter had surged forwards so that he had more than closed the distance between them, ruining Draco's fragile attempt to break away from him. His eyes were deep and green and shining, and he bent down and let his lips hover above Draco's. He was close enough that Draco's tongue touched his mouth when he tried to lick his _own _dry lips.

"You can stop me, if you want," Potter murmured. "Such power over me. That's the sort of thing Pedlar would envy you for, and so would others. Of course, no one would envy you for the _right _things. But you can take that power, if you want." He reached out, and his hand flattened over Draco's heart. For the first time, Draco thought he felt Potter's heartbeat in return, a quick, frenzied, hot drumming. _No, that's his magic. _"Do you want me to stop?"

Draco had to close his eyes. He couldn't stand the green so close to him, even more than anything else. His breath came fast and hard, and the smoke felt as if it was rolling through his lungs, smoke from a forest on fire.

The hand and the mouth were bad enough, but those _eyes..._

He couldn't hide from them even with his eyes closed, though. That was the bad thing. He could see them still, foxfire, marshfire, will-o'-the-wisps, shining behind his eyelids and leading him astray. They followed him down into the darkness of his own mind, and the defenses he tried to bring up against them-images of his parents, the Manor, the future that he had once hoped to have with a wife he chose and the children he would raise as heirs to his family's legacy-whirled away and expired in the midst of that smoke.

He was burning. The whole world would burn in the unnatural flame of Potter's magic and the universe wouldn't feel its passing. Maybe the universe would burn, too.

And maybe he was mad.

Without looking at Potter, Draco reached up and searched until he cupped the back of the man's neck. Potter shuddered and dipped his head to sweep his nose along Draco's cheek, which felt exquisitely, uniquely, sensitive.

"Yes," Draco whispered. "Oh, _God, _yes. Yes, please, come here."

And so he embraced the fire.

* * *

Harry kissed Draco carefully. He thought Draco's surrender was still fragile, and he wasn't entirely sure he should trust it.

More than that, he didn't know if Draco really _wanted _this. He wasn't squirming away, but he let himself be kissed passively, rather than participating in it. And no matter how Harry wielded his tongue or drew back and licked or tried to coax Draco's tongue out of hiding, he just stood there.

Well, Harry knew a way to coax him.

He eased Draco backwards, and because Draco seemed committed to that passivity, he went along with the push. When his back landed on the wall next to the door, his eyes widened, and then he smiled. He was probably anticipating that Harry would make them both come the way he had before.

Instead, Harry kissed him one more time, his mouth delicate and tracing, urging, and then knelt at Draco's feet. He looked up and watched the realization spark to life in Draco's eyes, leaping up like a wildfire. He reached out a hand as if he would grasp Harry's and pull him back to his feet.

Harry ended _that_ by leaning in and resting his mouth over Draco's erection. He did nothing but breathe. That was enough to make Draco's pants dampen, from both the inside and the outside.

Draco closed his eyes and turned his head away. But a moan escaped him despite himself, and he didn't shove Harry off or turn and flee. Harry would have to use those signs to conclude that he wanted this so far.

So he went on, gently mouthing and licking, pulling back a little when Draco's hips arched and he tried to shove himself into Harry's mouth without taking his trousers off. Yes, Harry would give him what he was shaking for, but he would do it in his own time, and he wanted to make sure that Draco was fully in the moment, not hiding from Harry or himself, when he asked for it.

Draco's moans got desperate, got words along the edges that sounded like Harry's first name, before Harry yielded and undid Draco's belt and trousers. His hands were steady, but he did have to pause and wait when Draco froze as Harry's hand slid down to his bared groin. If Draco broke and fled now...

Harry knew that he would have to curl himself up in silence for a while, the way he had after reading the prophecy that Hermione had sent him.

But Draco settled back against the wall, and the quivering in his legs looked like it was taking on a different dimension. Harry kissed him on the hip and dumped his belt and trousers and pants all in a tangled mess on the floor. Then he reached out.

Draco bucked and bowed his head as Harry touched his cock, smoothing his fingers from shaft to head. Harry learned the texture of the skin by feel, watching Draco's face all the time. Draco never opened his eyes.

But he was still here. There were so many different kinds of courage in his heart that Harry felt his breath come short when considering that, far more than considering what he was about to do. Yes, it would be his first time doing it, but so what? He wanted to. He wasn't caught between wildly conflicting desires and choosing to pursue one, the way Draco was.

"Ready?" Harry asked, and then wondered if he should have. Draco's shoulders tensed. On the one hand, Harry was giving him the chance to say no, but on the other, he might have put more pressure on Draco than he was prepared to handle.

But Draco hissed between his teeth and nodded.

For the nod, more than anything else, even the way that he groaned when Harry did it or the way he reached out to grab the side of Harry's head, Harry opened his mouth and took him in as deeply as he could.

It felt weird. Draco's cock teased and scraped at the back of his mouth, and triggered a bout of coughing that he had no control over and which went on for an embarrassingly long time. But at last Harry managed to seize control of his breathing and go back down for a second time, and then Draco-

The only word Harry could think of was _melted. _Draco melted like chocolate on a summer day, slouching back against the wall, his hips loose, his legs spreading, his moans long and languid. Harry assumed he was doing something right, at last, and grabbed Draco's hips so that he could muscle one of them closer to his mouth. Draco's cock went deeper than he really wanted then, and he jumped as Harry choked and almost spat him out.

Harry looked up, hesitantly, wondering if he had hurt Draco with a scrape against his teeth-

And found Draco smiling at him.

_That _made Harry dive back down, filling his mouth, filling his lungs, filling his tongue, sucking and swallowing. That was worth all of it, and so was the way Draco's hand trailing through his hair, as though uncertain whether Harry really wanted him to grip. Harry moved his head up, an incoherent plea breaking through his mouth as he worked, and Draco's hand tightened.

Held tight, embraced at last, Harry sucked as hard as he could, rested his jaw only so that his tongue could lick just as hard, and reached down with his hands to touch Draco's hips and balls and arse when he realized Draco liked that, too. At one point he ran his finger all the way up and circled teasingly around Draco's hole, then paused and eased one fingertip inwards.

Draco came, wild and crying out as though that had surprised even him. Harry opened his jaws wider and swallowed as fast as he could. His throat pulsed and ached, and he felt a strange, savage satisfaction as some of the liquid escaped his lips and dripped down his face.

_This _was what it felt like to share yourself fully with a lover. He'd come close a couple of times, but never this far.

Draco was sliding down the wall before Harry finished swallowing, his quiet gasps filling the room with sound. Harry followed him down, still sucking, and then pulled away when he saw Draco wince, because it probably hurt. Then he reached out and traced his fingers around the corner of Draco's jaw, wishing he had the right words to say next.

Draco answered him by reaching down and rolling Harry on his back. Then he parted Harry's legs, knelt between them, and rested a thigh against his groin.

Harry's lips parted, and he whined without knowing he was going to do it. Then he reached up, gripped Draco's hips again, and began to rub himself off, rolling his own hips back and forth to the point where his arse felt scraped and painful from the floor.

Draco watched him do it, panting with his eyes half-closed. Every time Harry thought he might be bored, he saw some spark in those bright eyes that let him continue.

And Draco had reached out for _him_. Draco was the one who had initiated this. That made all the difference. All the wonderful difference.

Harry came with what felt like the pattern of Draco's kneecap embedded in his groin, his thighs tight, his belly shuddering. The wetness and the confinement of his cock, because he still hadn't taken his trousers or his pants off, made the whole thing better. He let his head sag to the side, his mouth open, his sides heave up and down.

Oh, God. He felt good. Because he'd made Draco feel good, because Draco reached back.

He reached up and pulled Draco down on him, although Draco strained and resisted a little, whispering something about people coming to the door. Harry shook his head and closed his eyes. He felt fire wrap around them, stroking soft tendrils up and down their sides, across their backs. Anyone who came through the door or glanced in would see only a slow-burning fireball, and doubtless know better than to disturb them.

Draco watched the fire with a face full of awe. Harry tugged him closer still and shut his eyes.

Magic was nothing, not next to this experience.


	33. Waking

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Thirty-Three-Waking_

Hermione closed her eyes and tilted her head back, her fingers working through her hair as she plunged it under the water. The shampoo washed out at once on the top, but got tangled and slippery under the curls. Hermione sighed and turned her head completely upside-down. Sometimes that was the only way to get the bloody shampoo out of her hair.

She was thinking about what she should do that evening. Minister Clearwater had given her the day off, saying she was doing a wonderful job with the propaganda against Potter and the other tasks that the Minister had asked her to handle. Hermione half-wanted to go to Diagon Alley and see if she could get someone to notice her.

But she was still married, and everyone knew it, since her _husband _was the biggest of Potter's supporters. She would only attract the sort of man who thought it was cool to fuck someone else over, and Hermione didn't want that.

She wanted...sometimes she didn't know what she wanted, her mind felt so full of thick and stifling smoke. She wanted to be free of the Minister. She wanted to breathe. She wanted to send more information to Ron and Harry than she was permitted.

Hermione sighed as she stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around her waist, then reached for another to dry her hair. She thought the treasonous comments from one corner of her mind were becoming fainter, but every time she thought they were gone for good, they would come back. She didn't know how to get rid of them.

_Perhaps what I need is a Mind-Healer, _she decided, squinting thoughtfully into a mirror. _That would let me know exactly why I have so much trouble thinking in the right way as well as why I stayed married to Weasley for so long. And I know there are a few that have offices near the Ministry, or in it. I can pick up the final papers that I'll need to file for a divorce, too._

The treasonous corner of her mind was silent, as though the plan to visit a Mind-Healer suited it just fine. Hermione showed her teeth to the face in the mirror and spun away, reaching for yet another towel. She was going to make sure that she looked her best when she went out. She might not be divorced yet and not yet ready for another relationship, but there was no harm in encouraging people to look.

Or looking herself, for that matter.

* * *

"A simple slap across the face would be so much more effective." George stepped back and considered Fred's elaborate plan for the machine to make stupid people shut up. He had argued in favor of the simple, a potion or a prank like the ones they used to sell, but Fred had sneered at him in the back of their shared mind and insisted that George was wrong and it would never work. George had consented to draw down what Fred had in mind, but looking at it now, he couldn't see the real usefulness of it, the way Fred had promised him he would be able to.

_No, it wouldn't, _Fred told him. _A slap gets them angry, and it doesn't stop them from opening their mouths and retorting in the next moment. A slap doesn't turn their heads around, or seal their mouths shut, or make them regret that they were born because of the sensation of needles in their tongues, the way this will._

George thought about that wistfully for a moment before he shook his head. "We can't really do that. Harry wouldn't like it. He spends hours and hours every day speaking with these idiots; he wouldn't like it if they all suffered the same kind of pain because they mouthed off to him."

_Then we can make it different kinds of pain. This design is adaptable._

George sighed. "No, I mean that he wouldn't like it at _all._ Harry is concerned with leading this revolution better than the way he did in the past. That means allowing people to disagree and even be idiots, as long as they don't manage to urge him into doing something stupid that would actually hurt the revolution's chances."

_That makes no sense. _Fred was still for a moment, though George could sense him shifting around in the back of his head like a tongue probing a loose tooth. _Maybe what we need is a machine to shock Harry back to sanity? We were on the track of one before. _

"This is sanity." George crumpled up the parchment with the machine's picture on it and threw it away, ignoring Fred's incoherent protests. "Just not the kind of sanity that we'd like to see him have. But preferable to what he had before."

Fred shuddered this time, and George had no trouble recognizing that shiver of cold. _You can say that again._

"This is sanity-"

_It's a good thing I stayed with you, little brother, _Fred murmured in disgust. _No telling what kind of trouble you would have got yourself into by now if I hadn't._

* * *

"Good morning." The Mind-Healer who rose to hold her hand out to Hermione was a neat, professional woman, dressed in conservative green robes with her red hair held up in a bun. It wasn't her fault that her red hair reminded Hermione of Ron, and she had to restrain a grimace of distaste as she bowed over the woman's hand. "How can I help you?"

"This is only my first appointment," Hermione said. "But I'm having plenty of trouble, and I'll probably need a good many more." She looked around Healer Noble's office. Calm and neat and professional as the owner, she was glad to see, without the kind of wildness that had ruined Ron's chances in the Ministry, and would have ruined Hermione's if she had been fool enough to follow Potter. The couches and the chairs were comfortable, the fireplace pristine, and the walls contained only honors Noble had won and photographs of natural scenes.

"Very good," said Noble, and why wouldn't she, when Hermione was offering her business? She sat down in the chair across from her and crossed her legs. "What seems to be the trouble?"

"I have certain impulses that tell me to go against the best interests of my job and the Ministry," Hermione said. She paused in easing her satchel to the floor. She knew the secretary had taken her name, but she didn't know if he had given it to the Healer. "You know who I am?"

"Your photograph was in the paper recently, Madam Granger-Weasley," Noble said, and a small smile came and went on her face.

Hermione nodded, grateful she'd found someone who recognized reality when it stared her in the face. "These impulses return again and again, telling me that I should turn against the Minister and join the revolution led by my traitor best friend and traitor husband. I want to figure out how to subdue them."

Noble frowned at her. "I see," she said, slowly. "Have you considered that it is only natural to experience a conflict about a decision of principle? The only courses open to you were turning against your friends or turning against the Ministry, and it is not surprising that, even with the decision made, you are still struggling to find a third course that would have allowed you everything you wanted."

Hermione lifted her head, a little stunned that Noble had taken that tack. Perhaps she wasn't so professional after all, and Hermione should leave her office. "There is little conflict here that should still remain," she said. "I understand that what Potter and Weasley are doing is wrong. And there is constant anger against Minister Clearwater that I do not understand, when she has done less to them than Minister Duplais did."

Noble waited a few moments, as if expecting more, and then nodded. "Persistent hostility can indeed be a problem, and a sign of unacknowledged desires," she said, and although she sounded as if she was reciting from a book, that calmed Hermione rather than otherwise. "Do you grant me permission to use Legilimency on you?"

Hermione nodded at once. She knew that Ministry-approved Mind-Healers could only use their skills to view patients' memories, not use them against them. Anything more than that would result in prosecution of the Mind-Healer in question. She'd spent time reading up on the regulations last night. "Of course."

"Good." Noble murmured a few words under her breath, then nodded. "Look directly at me, please. Legilimency is easier with direct eye contact."

Hermione would have responded that, as far as she knew, it was only _possible _with direct eye contact, but she forgave Noble for phrasing her response oddly. She met her gaze, and waited.

The sensation that slammed through her was odder than she was prepared for. It felt as though someone had inserted a cool breeze through her eyes into the brain, the way that a violent killer like Potter might insert a knife. Hermione shuddered and held her hands still in her lap.

She could feel a sensation of Noble moving through her mind like a careful guest, touching some things-those would be the embodied forms of memories, Hermione thought, pleased to discover that she remembered that much from her reading-and laying them down again. Hermione thought of her mind as like a house, and Noble was in the drawing room. She paused, then reached out and touched something else.

Hermione gasped and jerked. There was a locked door there, in the side of her mind. She didn't know _why_. She hid nothing from herself. She had no guilty secrets to hide, other than whatever was making her feel hostile towards Minister Clearwater, and that in and of itself wasn't a _problem_. It was-

It was a disease, that was all, a boil that could be lanced. Whatever Noble had touched didn't feel like that.

"Here we are," Noble said, her voice sounding as if she spoke inside and outside Hermione's mind at once. "This is the source of your trouble." She paused, and Hermione, not sure what she was waiting for, stirred. "May I open it?" Noble prompted gently.

"Of course!" Hermione's voice sounded tighter and more strained than she would have liked, higher. She cleared her throat. "What am I paying you for?"

"Pithy," Noble said, "if less than accurate." And she reached out, broke a lock on the door that Hermione hadn't realized was there and which made her scream as a blinding headache pounded through her, and opened the door.

Everything came together like the joining of two streams, a clashing of violent waters that rocked Hermione where she sat. Loyalty to the Ministry, pity for the rebels, conviction that she had to be grateful to Clearwater for her new job and that she wouldn't merit such trust otherwise, as one of Potter's close friends-

And the moments when she passed information, the resentment against the Minister for using the Imperius Curse on her, the longing for Ron to come back again, the love and worry for Harry, the burning that was the sensation of writing that last letter to Ron and knowing he might not figure it out-

Hermione tried to cry out, but her voice was weak, and she knew that she had slumped back against the chair. When she opened her eyes, tears crowded her cheeks, and Noble stood in front of her with a glass of water, her face suffused with a kind of quiet anger that Hermione trusted instinctively. She reached out, took the glass of water, and began to sip.

"Yes," Noble said, though as far as Hermione knew, she hadn't asked a question. "I thought so. Someone used the Imperius Curse to order you into a conflict with your own principles, and a rule-bound personality, like yours, is going to experience that as pain and residual hostility."

"I'm not that rule-bound," Hermione muttered, thinking of the way she had behaved at Hogwarts and the role she had accepted in the Ministry as the revolution's spy. It was _still _incredible to her to think that she had forgotten that, that Clearwater had managed to turn her against her husband and best friend. Such a large chunk of herself had gone missing. How had she stood it?

Exactly the way Noble had told her she had, of course. By changing the hostility into something she could hide and resenting herself for the "free-floating" emotions she couldn't connect to a source.

From the sympathetic smile Noble gave her, she understood both what Hermione had meant when she spoke and the way she was feeling right now. She nodded. "But the Imperius Curse helped by locking away the part of your mind that was inclined to empathize with your friends and shoving the part that most liked rules forwards." She paused. "Both the deployment of the curse and the spell that must have enabled you to keep part of your mind separate were...quite skillful."

"You know who did this to me," Hermione said, meeting Noble's eyes and then looking away. "You felt the realization when you opened the door as well as I did."

"Yes," Noble said. "What remains undecided is what we should do about it. The Minister is quite powerful, and challenging her right now could mean that we both see the inside of prison cells and nothing else for the rest of our lives. On the other hand, using the Imperius Curse on someone is illegal."

Hermione licked her lips and sipped more water. She found herself uncertain that Noble's professional demeanor was such a good thing, with her mind restored to her. She couldn't tell what the bloody woman felt, or where her support would fall. "Would you be willing to testify?" she asked bluntly, after several attempts to phrase it in a more subtle way. She was tired of dodging around real facts with careful words, and if Noble had seen that Clearwater had enthralled her, she must also have seen the reason Hermione had hidden part of her mind from the enslavement.

"The Ministry pays me."

Hermione knew a dismissal when she heard me. She nodded and started to stand, wondering if she could make it to her wand and _Obliviate _Noble before she noticed Hermione was reaching for it. Hermione would be sorry to do it, but her secret needed protecting, and Noble didn't seem willing to do it.

Noble shook her head, a wintry smile on her lips. "You don't understand. The Ministry pays me, but they are only one of the employers I could have if I so chose. My main job here is looking into the minds of criminals who permit it, often those who claim they have been abused by Aurors or Hit Wizards." She paused. "I uphold the law, not its upsetting."

Hermione swallowed. "Despite the Minister being the powerful one at this particular moment? Despite the fact that it would associate you with people who _do _break the law?"

Noble considered her a moment, then nodded. "I think the sacrifice of smaller principles to a higher one is familiar to you," she murmured. "That makes me more confident that you would not ask more of me than I could give. On the other hand, walking into the Minister's office and making the accusation is not the best way to go about things. There are other methods we might use."

Hermione smiled, while her mind spun into being, one integrated unity once again, her thoughts fresh and hot. "I'd like to hear them."

* * *

_This is the first morning of the rest of your life. _

A stupid and sentimental way to feel, probably, when you were opening your eyes after your second night with a lover who might regret what he'd done and backtrack as soon as he thought about it. But Harry felt it anyway. He had given up on telling himself that everything he felt and did was stupid.

_The members of the council are more than happy to do that for me, _he thought wryly, and rolled his head to the side to look at Draco.

Draco's eyes were open and regarding him. There was a sharp look in them that Harry thought could be for him-spending the night on the floor of a meeting room wrapped in flames wouldn't make anyone's list of the top most romantic ways to sleep together-or for the future. Harry nodded to him. "Good morning," he said, and wondered if Draco's small flinch was from the greeting or the wash of breath in his face or what.

Then he shook his head. _Reality will disappoint me soon enough. I'm not going to make constant guesses about which way it'll happen and what I'm doing wrong. _

"Good morning," Draco said back, and then turned to look at the door of the meeting room. "Someone will have missed us. I should get back to my rooms before that person decides my absence means I've abandoned my parents, and they can kill them."

Harry nodded and let Draco roll out of his arms, watching with leisurely appreciation as he dressed. Draco flushed, and his nakedness meant Harry could watch the flush roll down his neck, his chest, and his arms. God, he was beautiful in all senses of the word. Harry's eyes lingered on the Dark Mark and the silver scars across his chest and a small, healing burn he must have got in the raid on Azkaban, and could find nothing that wasn't lovely or appealing to him.

"People will have missed you, as well," Draco said, turning around to frown at Harry and flick hair out of his eyes. "I think you should get up."

"I'll wait until after you've left," Harry said. "If you don't want them to associate us, then it wouldn't be a good idea to be seen leaving together."

Draco flushed again, for some reason, just as the blood was starting to fade from his face. Harry didn't know why. He clenched one hand down as though he was holding a chain in his fist, then nodded. "All right." His walk to the door was stiff with bristly pride; if he'd been a cat, Harry thought, his tail would have been fluffed up.

"If you don't mind them associating us together," Harry called lazily after him, "then I'll dress and come out immediately after you, of course. It's your choice."

Draco paused and looked back at him. His face was normal now, but Harry's magic told him tales of a fast heartbeat and emotions dancing back and forth like a quivering flame, as though Draco wanted to settle on one side but was afraid of what would happen, no matter what choice he made. Harry stood and reached for his discarded pants. He never took his eyes off Draco; his magic sent out small, invisible tendrils of fire and located his clothes by the feel of the cloth well enough.

"I want you to," Draco said.

"Come out immediately after you?" Harry repeated, just to make sure that he had it clear, and smiled when Draco nodded. Harry had the feeling that his smile was frighteningly large, but he couldn't contain it. "Of course. I'd be proud and honored."

Draco handed him a small, tense, nervous smile in return, and shoved the meeting room door open. Harry heard the beat of his footsteps traveling up the corridor, and listened to them until they vanished. Only then did he start dressing, shaking his head when the thought came that someone could look in through the meeting room door and see him there like that, undressed.

Draco had chosen him, despite all the reasons not to. For that, Harry could endure all the stares and all the gossip the members of the revolution wanted to hand him.

When he walked out at last, the patrolling guards looked at him and then away. Harry saw more than one frown among them. Someone must have looked in and seen them wrapped in flames, he thought.

_Well. _There were some things he was willing to change about the way he led the revolution, and some things he would have been willing to change if they weren't contradicted a moment later by a suggestion from someone else. Sleeping with Draco wasn't one of those.

He went to the eating hall to grab a bowl of cornflakes, and then went to his first meeting of the day, with Veronica Dover, the one who had proposed that they open negotiations with the Ministry. He did stop on his way to go to his room and pick up a sheaf of notes he'd made on the subject. If Dover could reassure him of certain things _and _if they could find enough people committed to making the journey and diplomatic enough to be trusted, then it might be a good idea.

The Ministry had still issued no open response to the burning of Azkaban. They spun out propaganda about him at an alarming rate, and they gave occasional interviews with hand-picked people, and every two or three days there was a generic press conference about the threat "Potter and his revolution" presented. But they'd sacked the one Auror who had given a lengthy story to the press. Harry had no idea what they were going to do next, but potentially they were as tired of the war as he was.

Maybe a revolution wasn't the best way. If the Ministry could guarantee certain changes to the legal process that would mean Muggleborn prisoners weren't treated differently from pure-blood ones...

Then Harry sighed. He had probably closed that course of action off forever himself, with his burning of Minister Duplais and his subsequent run from arrest. Well, he would deal with that when matters came to that pass.

He stepped into the meeting room, and paused. Dover wasn't there, but several of the people who had been at the meeting yesterday, including Pedlar, were. She rose to her feet at the sight of him, eyes shining with hate and triumph. The rest of the people around the table gave him hard stares or turned away.

Harry sighed. "Is this the part where you tell me that you can't tolerate me sleeping with a Death Eater, so you're abandoning the revolution?"

"This is the part," Pedlar said, voice so thick that it was hard to understand her, "that we tell you you've _failed. _You've slept with the enemy, you've kept his parents safe only because you favor him, and you've burned the prison that was a source of support and safety for the wizarding world, a cornerstone of our justice system."

"Despite more than thirty prisoners being there for crimes they hadn't committed?" Harry demanded. That had been how many people said, under Veritaserum, that they hadn't done where they were accused of or had committed a lesser crime, but they'd gone to Azkaban only because of their blood. Or, in a few cases, because they'd made another pure-blood family angry.

Pedlar brushed that off. "Thirty out of _hundreds._"

"There were ninety."

Pedlar leaned forwards intently. "You're making special exceptions. You're dispensing favors that you don't have the right to dispense. We're not leaving the revolution and its goals. You are."


	34. Branding the Future

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Thirty-Four-Branding the Future_

"This seems sudden," Harry said, when he'd taken a few moments to let the news pass through him like a cold wind and he didn't think that waiting longer would accomplish anything. "Can I ask why this is happening now, as opposed to a few weeks ago when you might have found more people to stand with you?" His voice was calmer than he had known it would be, dryer. He might have been standing in the middle of a desert.

_If Pedlar put others up to this, then I will exile her. Stun her with my magic again. Do whatever is necessary to ensure that the others can make their decisions of their own free wills._

"Catchers was deluded," Pedlar said. Her voice was a little less thick now, as if listening to him speak to her had calmed her hatred. She folded her arms and leaned a hip on the table, smiling at him, and her eyes were bright as dying stars. "He gave up on you because of unrequited love, and he assumed the revolution would dissolve with him. It didn't. We're not giving up on the revolution, the way he did. We're giving up on you."

"The rest of you agree with this?" Harry looked around the room, although he found it hard to catch eyes. Most of the people there had their heads turned away from him. "You agree that Pedlar and her like should run the revolution, and that you won't be killed or captured by the Ministry inside a week?"

"You're trying to confuse and frighten them." Pedlar's voice had gone even quieter. "I told them this would happen, and as a result, they're not vulnerable to that tactic anymore. Why would the Ministry capture us? We plan to open negotiations with them, and not tell them where we are. We won't have you to hinder and slow us down. We'll turn over the rest of the Azkaban prisoners to them, the way they want. There's no reason that they should refuse us a pardon."

"Excuse me," Harry said, and showed her all his teeth at once. "I thought you said that you weren't giving up on the revolution. Clearly I misheard you."

"The best way to fight a revolution is from the inside," Pedlar explained, sounding as though she had done this ten times already and he hadn't listened. Those explanations had probably been given to other people, Harry thought critically, listening to the half-falls and undertones and semitones in her voice. His magic brought him the news that sweat had started along her hairline, and that the hearts of most people in the room were beating fast. "Through reform. The Ministry knows that it can lose most of its Aurors at any time, now, that we'll go if we're told to arrest the wrong people. It won't try that again."

"Yes, it will," Harry said quietly. "The minute Minister Clearwater thinks that she only has to snap her fingers and bring you scurrying back-not even that, since the Ministry's tactics since the raid have been focused on bringing _me _down-she'll start punishing you for having the gall to betray her in the first place."

"We betrayed nothing." Pedlar snapped the end of the word off. "She wasn't Minister when we turned against the corrupted ideals of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and Duplais is dead."

"Then convince her of that," Harry said. "I hope you can." He looked around the room, and this time no one met his eyes, not even with the conviction of anger. They probably believed what Pedlar was saying, they probably did agree with her, but not enough to look at him. "I hope you all can. Not all of you were Aurors."

"Things are going to be different now." Pedlar was speaking from the middle of a winter's night, not the desert that had consumed Harry. "And you can't frighten us by mentioning things that don't matter."

Harry only shook his head, and kept his mouth closed for a few minutes as he thought about it. Then he said, "I reckon that you'll want to leave the manor now, since you won't need a secure base if you plan to throw yourselves on the Ministry's mercy and open negotiations straight away."

Pedlar laughed at him, hard and hoarse, and some of the hatred came back, drifting down her face and neck like a shadow, like a spill of oil. "Nice try, Potter. But we'll need the space to house the prisoners, at least until we can give them back to the Ministry. How many people will go with you? Two? Three? You don't need a manor. You could leave the country, even, if you don't want to follow our example and become part of the _real _revolution from inside." She paused, eyes losing all their light. Now they resembled nothing so much as burned-out cinders. "I know you'll leave. You'll run, because you're the kind of coward who can't embrace reality."

Harry smiled at her, and looked at the people in the room. Dover was missing, and so were several of the other people who had made more reasonable suggestions, like approaching potential allies. "Everyone agrees with you?" he asked mildly. "Everyone? The whole of the revolution?"

"Those who don't will be given their _choice_," Pedlar said, her neck arching up proudly. "Unlike you, who pretended to offer us choices only to snatch them away when we didn't perfectly follow your lead."

Harry sighed. That made it more complicated. It meant he couldn't just walk away with Ron and George and Draco and Draco's parents, and give the prisoners who were innocent of crimes what he planned to. It meant there might be still be people trusting and depending on him. "Let's ask them what they want, too," he said, and then held out his hands in front of him like a trumpet and blew down them.

He saw Pedlar flinch from the corner of his eye. She still hated and feared his magic. That might be good to know, but he really didn't think it would come down to a duel between them. She would shove innocents in his way to keep from facing him again, if she really had to.

The flame that flowed from his hands _made _trumpets, glowing red-gold instruments of solidified fire. And they sounded in every corner of the manor, proud and brassy, calling those who weren't here to the meeting room. Harry dropped his hands when he was done and looked at the council. A lot of them had no trouble staring at him, though they still flinched and looked away when they met his eyes.

"Now," Harry said. "Everyone knows what's happening, and they can make a _real _choice between the two alternatives, instead of having exile or surrender imposed on them."

Pedlar was shivering, although Harry was certain his trumpets wouldn't have blown cold air on her. She dropped her arms from their tight hug around herself and tried to look as though she knew what she was doing when he raised an eyebrow, but she still shook her head. "You would never choose to let them stay here instead of go with you," she said.

"Watch me," Harry mouthed, and then turned around and nodded as Ron arrived. Behind him came Wheelwright, and other Aurors who had fought with Harry, and those who had come to join the revolution of their own free will, and Dover, panting with the exertion.

Draco's bright hair was among them, although he slipped in at the back and took an unobtrusive position along the far wall. Harry smiled at him, not caring who saw. They would have a decision to make in a moment, and if they let the fact that he was in love with Draco put them off staying with him, then Harry would prefer to know now.

"Would you like to speak first?" Harry asked, bowing his head to Pedlar. It was a gesture that would cost him nothing, since the people who were already on her side wouldn't be swayed by anything he could say. And it made him look more gracious and accommodating than she did to those who might still waver in their decision about who to follow.

Pedlar gave him another glance of heavy-eyed hatred, and then moved a step forwards and cleared her throat. She didn't sound as confident as she had only moments before, Harry thought in some amusement. One sight of his magic weakened her that way, and he had no idea why. Was it really so frightening to her?

Perhaps it was. She liked predictable things, things she could understand and control, and the wild magic was none of those.

"Listen to me," Pedlar said, and lifted her head as though letting the light glance off her chin would change some minds for her. Perhaps it would, at that. Harry had given up on thinking that he knew the right thing to do for everyone in the revolution; some were sensible, some were willing to listen to their own disappointed hopes instead of good sense, and some were influenced by tiny things. "We have the chance to make peace with the Ministry if we act now and kick Potter out. He's the major disruptive element, the one that the Ministry would never forgive us for associating ourselves with. But if we go to the Ministry without him, then they might let us have our jobs back, and a place within the protection of the law."

Ron snorted. "And you think that's what most people here want?"

"I think most people here are tired of revolution that accomplishes _nothing_," Pedlar snapped, whirling around to face him. "So, yes, peace with the Ministry is preferable to that."

"I see," Ron said, nodding seriously. "And what makes you think that Minister Clearwater is going to forgive your betrayal just like _that_? You would have to have a prize that you could deliver to her. Something so big that she would forgive you because you'd done a greater service for her than your defection could have cost her."

Pedlar wasn't subtle. Everyone who mattered or had some sense saw the way her eyes flickered over to Harry, the way her head subtly turned.

Harry smiled, and he knew that it didn't make him look like the kind of tame, gentle leader that they'd been expecting. Half the people in the room swayed back from him. Harry ducked his head and slid his hands into his robe pockets. Around him, flames slid up from his shoulders, stuck up from his hair, and formed a glowing cloak of red and gold.

"You can make the decision to abandon me, and if it's a real decision, as opposed to something forced on you by a few loudmouths, then I can't do anything about it," he told them. "But if you try to betray me and force me into surrendering to the Ministry, then you'll see how strong my magic is."

* * *

Draco felt his mouth dry out. He would have backed away, but his back was already against the wall nearest the door, and he would have had to retreat out of the room to get further off.

He wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to leave, anyway. Yes, that power was ferocious, hot as a plague fever against his skin, but it was also the power that was protecting him. And his parents.

_Why did it take you a moment longer to think of your parents instead of yourself? _

Draco broke that particular brittle thought and threw it away. He didn't need the distraction at the moment. What _mattered _was that there were people here who wanted to destroy the source of that protection, some out of personal hatred, some out of fear, some out of disappointment, and Draco had to be aware of the consequences that would ensue if they managed to succeed.

Not that he thought they would. They couldn't feel it, the power, not in the same way that Draco could, or they refused to notice it, or they told themselves that no one could be that strong. Maybe Draco had extra reason for noticing it since he'd already been so close to Potter. But...

Didn't they _know _that they were in the room with magic that could destroy them with scarcely a thought? It seemed so impossible that they didn't that Draco was waiting, nervously, for the moment when they did and he was crushed to death in the stampede.

"No one wants to destroy you," Pedlar said. "If we gave you to Minister Clearwater, you would to go to Azkaban."

Potter smiled at her. "I think you mean 'whatever prison they build to take Azkaban's place,' since the old one is gone."

Draco had no idea why those words were the ones that set Pedlar off. He reckoned that she might have thought Potter was mocking her, or maybe she was tired of her powerlessness in the face of someone so strong and needed to show her own strength. She moved forwards, in a deadly, silent rush that Draco was forced to respect, although he knew it wasn't nearly deadly enough when faced with someone like Potter.

Her wand was up, a curse on her lips. Draco realized, to his endless surprise, that he had his hand on his own wand, prepared to leap in and defend Potter if he had to.

He was still reeling from the surprise when Potter responded to Pedlar's charge.

He breathed, and on the breath rode light as pure and radiant as dragonfire. It encircled Pedlar's head, and she froze, one hand opening and closing down near her side. It didn't burn her, but Draco could see how close the flames in the circle came to her eyes, and he could smell a subtle taint, which seemed to be the forerunner of burning hair. No, it wasn't happening yet, but it could, it _would_, and the flames slid down and lapped over Pedlar's neck, forming a collar.

"If she moves," Potter said, his voice light and unconcerned, "then she'll receive burns she can't survive to her face. She'll go blind first. Then the fire will go down into her larynx, and destroy it so she can't scream. Her hair all over her body will burn, and the fire will dance from hair to hair. You've seen a forest fire, the way the flames can leap from tree to tree? Like that."

Draco could see the fear in their white faces now, see the people who backed away from Potter. They knew it wasn't so much the threats that were the problem. No one had such delicate and precise control of fire that they should be able to encircle Pedlar like that and yet not burn her, especially not without a wand or an incantation. No one.

"You can't do this to me," Pedlar said, and that, more than anything, impressed Draco with her courage. He couldn't have spoken like that, with fire a second away from removing his eyes and his voice.

"I can," Potter said, and then he spread his hands out and blew on his fingers. The fire bowed towards Pedlar, then expanded away from her, blowing and rippling around her like a circle of banners. It was beautiful, Draco thought, and he knew Potter was doing that on purpose. "The thing is, I don't want to. But if you continue to threaten me, then I will. I'm not going back to the Ministry. Not going to make peace overtures unless we get some real promises from Minister Clearwater and establish that we're making peace to end the war, not to propitiate her fear of me. Or anyone else's, for the matter. I can change things about the way I lead. But I will not give in and let anyone attack me, threaten me, or tell me to my face that they're going to betray me. I _will not._"

Those last words literally shook the floor. Draco watched the ripples run under his feet and heard people cry out and then cut the sound off, as though they assumed that that would make Potter more likely to attack them. Draco knew that he probably would have felt the same, a few days ago, or at least felt bitterness that Potter was going mad and wouldn't be able to protect Draco and his parents if it came down to that.

But now, he looked up at Potter and watched the way his hands crooked and a star of pride flamed inside him instead. All these people, except perhaps Weasley, were afraid. They didn't trust Potter not to lash out and crush their heads in, although they _should _have, given what they had risked by coming to find him and follow him in the first place.

Draco had come for a different purpose: to free his parents and spy on Potter for the Ministry. But he was the one who had felt that strength gentled for him, who knew that Potter's flames could curl around him and protect him for hours at a time, who trusted the fire not to burn him.

That was a source of courage that no one else here had. Draco lifted his head and brushed his hair back from his face, although he didn't think he'd had a chance to clean up sufficiently since his early morning wake-up with Potter. He didn't look like a typical pure-blood to someone who might come on him suddenly.

But for once, he was different from other people in a way that made his difference a source of strength, not contempt.

He couldn't remember the last time he had felt like that.

* * *

Harry saw Draco's preening from a corner of his eye, and wanted to smile. But he didn't. There was always the chance Pedlar might misunderstand and think this meant that he was excusing her or giving in to her because he was incapable of threatening someone for long.

He was _perfectly _capable of threatening someone. In a way, Harry thought, that was the problem. He would have got on with others better if he didn't have stronger magic, if he hadn't done some of the things they knew he had done during the war. If they expected someone ordinary and determined out of him, instead of the great hero who should fit every one of their preconceptions.

What he wanted most of all right now, though, was to burn this moment into Pedlar's mind. She didn't listen to reason; she didn't listen to other people, like Ron, who tried to talk to her; she didn't listen to physical pain that showed how easy it would be for Harry to duel and then crush her. Perhaps she would listen to something that stayed with her.

Harry shaped his hands in front of him again, this time into a circle made of joined fingers. He didn't know the name for what he was doing, the way that he knew the names of so many spells. Power poured through him, shimmering, and flames formed above and under his skin. He knew what he wanted done, and the wild magic went and did it.

"If you think about betraying me or the revolution again," he told Pedlar, "then you'll hear the fire. The hiss of it, coming closer and closer." The hissing flames foamed over his fingers like water, like wine, heading straight for Pedlar. "Persist in words that form the betrayal, and you'll feel the heat. _Do _something, and you'll burn." He made a flinging motion at her with one hand, because that was the thing that his magic told him he should do at the moment.

Pedlar cried out and staggered backwards, one hand rising to cup her cheek. Harry nodded when her hand dropped and everyone else could see, too. There was a bright, ugly brand on her face, one that looked like a flame if you squinted, running from her left cheek in an arch over her left eye.

"That's for you," Harry told her, and turned and looked at the others. They flinched back from his flames, except Ron, who was looking at him calmly, sadly, and Draco, who stood taller and widened his eyes as if to take in the glare. Harry smiled back at him, and again didn't care who saw. Things were changing now. He didn't know how many of them would believe what he said next, but he would say it anyway. "And I'll do the same thing to anyone who cares mostly about punishing me for not being what they wish me to be, or who talks about reestablishing Azkaban or betraying me and my friends to the Ministry. If you want to talk _reasonably _about a compromise, then that's fine. I was on my way to speak to Veronica Dover, who first proposed it, this morning when Pedlar interfered with the meeting instead." He looked at Dover and waited until her eyes came reluctantly back to him, rather than staring at the floor. "Do you still think peace negotiations with the Ministry are a good idea? Or have we gone too far and done too much to think that Minister Clearwater will go for it?"

Dover blinked, swallowed, and then displayed more courage than Harry had known she could by moving forwards. "How do we know that this is permanent, this arrangement of yours?" she asked. "How do we know that you won't burn someone who disagrees with you, not just turns against you?"

"A fair point," Harry said. "Would you like me to make an Unbreakable Vow that that won't happen?"

Dover paused, her eyes bright with uncertainty. Harry didn't think she was used to making decisions like this, and he sympathized. He hadn't been used to making decisions like this even two months ago, and some of the ones he had made since then had been bad. He waited.

"Is your magic strong enough to get around the Vow?" Dover asked finally. "That would be what frightens me most. I don't know what you _are_, sir. There's never been anything like it."

"Put me under Veritaserum, and I can tell you whether I'd use magic to get around the Vow," Harry said briskly. "My having this level of control over the wild magic means that it does what I tell it to, not the other way around. And then we can make the Vow. Think carefully about the terms, so that you can be more reassured." He swept his gaze around the room. "Is there anyone else who would volunteer to be a representative of peace to the Ministry? For obvious reasons, I can't go."

Some others came forwards-mostly people Harry would have expected, those who had offered suggestions at the last full meeting and not the ones who had stood with Pedlar. Those watched him with levels of fear and hatred in their eyes that were almost insane.

Harry sneered at them, and his flame snapped and billowed above his head like flags. It was entirely possible that the revolution would end soon, and also entirely possible that he would give up leadership to someone else, because he would have to. But so far, none of the people who had come forwards as candidates for leadership impressed him-not Catchers, not Pedlar, not the people who supported them. They had let personal hatred overcome any goal the revolution might have had. Harry could have respected someone who made plans to use him as a weapon or a sacrifice, the way Dumbledore had, more than he did them.

He was too powerful to be trusted? He was too wild, too scary, to be a good revolutionary leader?

Fine. Then he would _use _that power, that wildness, that fear, to make sure the person who followed him was a good leader, and to guide the revolution to a safe ending and landing.

_And fuck whatever the lightning says about me._


	35. Vengeance Moving

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Thirty-Five-Vengeance Moving_

"Hermione! I have more reports that I want you to file."

_You don't get to call me Hermione, bitch. _But she couldn't say that. She had to pretend to bow and scrape and be under the Imperius Curse a bit longer, until Noble could spread the news, quietly and in a way that made it seem as though she wasn't connected to Hermione, among people who would matter and who would see this as an outrage. Given how many people were afraid of Clearwater, Hermione knew that it would take a while.

"Yes, of course, Minister," she said, and reached out to take the stack of reports, looking over them. They all seemed to be about the hunt for Harry, and to contain information that related to supposed sightings of him and the activities of the revolution. Hermione gave a mental shrug. She could read through these and send the information on, but to her it didn't look like anything she didn't already know.

"You've been very quiet."

Harry looked up to find Clearwater studying her with fierce concern, with hawk-eyes. Hermione sighed, but to herself. She had probably missed some cue that her brain-twisted self would have given, such as not cringing enough.

"I'm still thinking about what I did in the past," she admitted, letting her head droop. "I was so _stupid, _Minister, to think that Potter was ever a worthy leader. I don't know why I followed him for so long."

Clearwater blinked at her. Then she gave a clumsy little smile and reached out to pat Hermione's hand. "It's understandable, my dear," she said, obviously not noticing the way that Hermione's fingers twitched with the desire to get away from hers. "You started following him when you were very young. You didn't have the distance or the experience to realize what made him a poor choice."

Hermione gave a loud sigh this time and let her head hang down, fringe obscuring the light in her eyes. "Do you think," she whispered, and her voice faltered and fell silent.

"Do go on." Clearwater was leaning forwards now, her voice friendly.

"Do you think that anyone in the Ministry besides you will ever trust me?" Hermione looked up and tried to make her eyes glitter with tears. She wasn't sure that she succeeded, because it took a lot to make her cry, but from the way Clearwater's face softened, she must have done better than she thought. "Or will they always see me as Potter's minion, someone who was mistaken and knew it?"

"They'll see you as more than that if you try hard enough to redeem yourself," Clearwater said firmly, and got up and came around the desk to put her arm on Hermione's shoulders. Hermione's skin shuddered, but she tried her best to keep on the calm mask that wanted to break when she felt Clearwater touch her. "But it will take time and effort, I won't lie to you about that. Do you still want to try?"

"Yes," Hermione said, and her lip quivered before she cleared her throat and tried for a harder tone. "Yes, I do."

"Good girl," Clearwater said, with, Hermione couldn't help noticing, exactly the same tone in her voice that she would use to a dog who'd performed an interesting trick, and let Hermione go with a fond little smile. "Now, I would like you to take those reports away and file them, then report to me for other duties."

Hermione bowed to her and stepped out of her office, giving herself a quick shake when she was out in the corridor. At the moment, she might have exchanged places with the dog Clearwater had praised, if only because that would mean that she stood some chance of shaking the dirt off.

Clearwater was fouler than she had reckoned, and she was glad that Noble had broken her free of the curse for purely aesthetic reasons, at the moment. That much corruption would have corrupted her eventually.

She made her way to her office, where she found a sealed letter on the desk. From the offices of the Ministry's Mind-Healers, outside and officially, but Hermione knew what she would find inside.

Noble worked fast when she was outraged. There was a list of names.

People who might believe Hermione. People who might help to bring the Ministry down from the inside.

Hermione smiled and went back to her work with a will, mind alert for the facts that she could pick out and send to Ron and Harry.

* * *

"George? Are you in here?"

George lifted his head from the latest diagram of their machine to shut up stupid people, blinking. Ron stood in the doorway of the lab, and as far as he knew, Ron had never willingly visited them except when Harry was with him, as if Harry's strangeness dulled the impact of theirs. "Little brother," George said, and came around the desk to give him a hug. His arms would have to do double duty for Fred's, too, but since that was usual, George didn't mind. "How are you? What do you want?"

Ron pulled back and gave him a glance keen with misery. "You have to see it, too," he said.

"See what?" George escorted him over to a chair and started searching for some tea that hadn't been coated by the drifting dust and possible metal fragments of the lab.

"That Harry is destroying the revolution around him." Ron brought his hand down sharply into his lap, and then looked surprised at himself. "I mean, he just _can't _go on like this. Not-not acting as though he can destroy and intimidate everyone he likes, and then still lead."

_I know we should have worked on that machine to save his sanity first, _Fred whispered.

George let his words do double duty, too, and answer Fred as well as Ron. "What looks like insanity to someone else is probably going to be fine for someone who's touched by prophecy and lightning and trying to lead a revolution at the same time. That's just the way it is."

Ron jerked his head up. "Touched by prophecy? What does that mean?"

"Well," George said, trying to figure out how slow his brother was, "when a big prophecy and a hero love each other very, very much-"

Ron shook his head jerkily. "No, I mean, I know about the prophecy that said he and Voldemort had to fight. But what about this new one? There's a new one?"

_Harry hasn't told him? Interesting. _Or at least hadn't told him all the details, obviously. George considered how much they _should _say, and finally decided that the broad outlines of the truth weren't a problem. "Harry has been seeing this stag made out of lightning that looks like his Patronus dancing around."

"Except his Patronus isn't made of lightning," Ron muttered.

"Do you want to listen to this or not?" George demanded, and knew that he was speaking for Fred just then. He would never have been so insensitive to ickle Ronniekins.

Ron cleared his throat. "Sorry."

"Anyway," George said, "we thought we could feel some strong powers shifting around when Harry used his wild magic, but we couldn't tell what it was or why it mattered. So we invented a machine we thought would help Harry to control the lightning. But it didn't work the way we intended. Harry got put in contact with the lightning, but it told him there was a prophecy and that it was the future and he would have to leave everyone behind."

Ron's face got so pale it was kind of funny. "That's impossible," he whispered. "I think maybe he should step down as leader of the revolution, but I never wanted him to leave. Or does it mean that he's going to die?"

"We don't know," George had to admit. "But I don't think death is part of the equation. Just-leaving? Going to a higher plane of existence, maybe? It was kind of hard to tell, since Harry was so exasperated with the lightning when he was talking about it. He doesn't want to leave, either, if you want that consolation."

"That's something that can't happen," Ron said. "At least, not before we do something to really _change _things. Or the revolution will just fall apart, and there'll be no change." He looked on the verge of burying his head in his hands, which George never wanted to see and Fred found boring, so they had to think of something else to say.

"Well, but you've said the revolution is already falling apart," George said. "There are some of us who can keep on fighting even if a lot of people leave. Why don't you talk to Harry about you taking over the leadership? Lots of people trust you and would follow you. At least, they would if the way they're always talking about you is any indication."

Ron snorted, but he did at least look more intrigued than George had thought he would. "I'm a strategist," he said. "But I don't think I could use magic to impress and frighten them the way Harry does."

"He's relying on that magic too much, I think." Pure Fred as well, and George wondered if Ron noticed the way George's voice had turned slower and sadder. Probably not. Harry was the only one who seemed to notice and understand something like that. Other people just thought it was weird and they were mad. "That would be a good reason for you to concentrate on being a leader, wouldn't it?"

Ron bit his lip. Then he said, "I don't want him to think that I'm betraying him, too, after everything that he's suffered through and worked for."

George shrugged. "You've always been his best mate. I'd ask him and tell him what your fears are. If you just turned your back on him and walked away, that would be bad, yeah-"

"I'd never do that!" Ron interrupted, but his face was that brilliant red that he only got when he was lying. George, who knew a little more about the war and the hunt for the Horcruxes than Ron probably suspected he did, gave him a glance and waited for Ron to look away.

"Just _talk _to him," George said. "We've tried, but we only know so much about what's going on. We have to stay away from the rest of the revolution so that their stupidity doesn't infect us." Ron gave him a wan smile, which disappointed George. He'd thought that was worth a laugh. His jokes were so much better than Fred's. "I think what he needs now is someone who'll talk to him instead of backing away or lying or just attacking him to his face."

Ron nodded, slowly at first, then with more conviction. "And there's something else," he said, after a moment of hesitation. "Did you know that he's dating Malfoy?"

"If you can call fucking dating," George said. "Sure."

Ron winced and put his hand over his eyes. "I was trying _not _to think about that," he whined. "It was bad enough seeing that grin on Harry's face and knowing what he was doing the night before."

George rolled his eyes. He had never had much sympathy with Ron's whining even when he thought that it was justified, and this wasn't. "Malfoy makes him a little saner, a little more stable, a little more determined not to leave with the lightning. What does it matter if he did evil things in the past? I think most of us were evil little shits at Hogwarts." Sometimes he lay awake at night and shared memories with Fred that had a certain awe. Did they really do that much damage when they were just seventeen? Future generations of prank-playing students would have a lot to look up to.

"It's not that," Ron said. He said it slowly, like he was actually thinking instead of just reacting, so George remained silent and listened. "I think that Malfoy cares more about his parents than anything else, and I wish Harry could see that. Harry gets in the way, and Malfoy is going to sacrifice him. If Harry survives that, then he'll be in no kind of mood to be stable."

George thought about that. It was true that neither of them had had the opportunity to talk to Malfoy at close quarters, and so they couldn't just say that Ron's concerns were nonsense. "Bring me to talk to him, and I think that we can judge," he said.

Ron blinked at him. "Why don't you just go and talk to him yourself?"

"Because you've spent more time with him," George said.

Ron blushed, of all things. "That was just to help him get his parents off the island," he said defensively. "And when I went and talked to him about leaving Harry alone. And when I went and reassured him that not everyone hated his parents. I mean, it's not like any of that stuff actually _matters._"

George smiled at him. It was one of those sublime moments when he didn't even have to _say _anything; remain silent and Ron would eventually have to listen to the silence and figure out that what he had been saying was stupid.

"I don't like this," Ron said, his last protest against an unfair universe.

"How fortunate that we don't care about that," George told him cheerfully. "Now, come on, let's go talk to the Destroyer of Hearts and see what he thinks." _We can always invent a machine to stop him if it looks like he's going to betray Harry._

* * *

Draco stepped back from the piece of bread that his father tried to lob at him. Part of him, the part that he felt was breaking free of his parents' influence day by day, noted it was pitiful that the great Lucius Malfoy had been reduced to the throwing of such ineffective weapons.

The rest of him was just as glad that that was the case, and that Lucius would never have the power to affect him again, at least not if Draco acted like a normal person instead of someone obsessed with rescuing his parents.

"I do not like this." It was his mother who spoke, as it had been during the last two times that Draco visited, her eyes darting back and forth between him and Lucius as if she thought both of them would hurt her and it was only a matter of which direction the pain would come from this time. _Probably true, _Draco had to admit. "There is so much better food that you could bring us, Draco."

Draco shook his head. "This is what I eat myself, except for the cutlery," he said. He hadn't thought it a good idea to give his mother and father knives and forks. "And if I stole food for you, then that would mean someone would find out and I'd probably be prevented from bringing _any _food to you."

"You could do better," his mother said, and crept forwards and laid a hand on his arm, gently, confidingly, as if she assumed that he would shake off a harder touch. He might, Draco thought. His heart was beating in new ways, his body was flooded with new sensations and his mind with new thoughts. It was entirely possible that he might revolt against his parents and not realize that that was what he'd done until he'd done it. "You could help us escape, the way I talked to you about before."

"Where would you go, that no one would recognize you?" Draco asked quietly. His mother didn't bear the Dark Mark, but his father did. There was no one in any of the countries surrounding England who wouldn't recognize it and send them straight back to the Ministry. And whether they cared for him in the same way he did for them or not, whether seven years of prison had changed them beyond recognition or not, Draco _still _didn't intend to lose them to prison again when he'd fought so hard to get them out. "There's no way that I could provide you the kind of protection that you're going to need. Please, Mother, just wait. It's possible that I can help you if you'll be patient."

"So you have been promising. That is not the case."

His father's voice, harsh, hoarse, confident. His mother backed off and fluttered her hands helplessly. She was still stronger than Lucius in some ways, Draco thought, staring at her, but she so feared displeasing him, feared what he might yell if she did, that she worked her own weakness.

"How would you know, Father?" Draco asked. "How much do you know of life outside Azkaban, even life here? You don't get to leave your rooms and walk up and down the corridors asking others' opinions. The only one you speak with here is me. And you don't trust me."

His father's eyes shone for an instant before he turned them away, but not with the light of any cleverness, Draco thought. It was the way the eyes of a rat would glitter when they caught a lit torch. "You have no access to the powers and the allies that I do, as a Malfoy," he whispered. "You have not been using them."

"They aren't there any more to be used." Maybe his father would hear and understand him if he kept his voice calm enough, Draco thought. That did seem to infuriate him more with some hint of the truth creeping through. "Your friends deserted our cause when you went to prison. And some of the people who might have helped us were frightened away by the revelation that you could save the life of the Boy-Who-Lived and _still _be put away." He glanced at his mother, wondering again why accompanying his father, to the point of refusing to talk about her own saving of Potter, was so much more important to her than staying free.

"The contacts would be there if you had maintained them."

Draco bared his teeth. Yes, his father wasn't listening to him, and no, it wouldn't change if he stayed and made more of the effort, at least right now. He thought that leaving might be the best decision he could make. He would come back when he was calmer. He turned towards the door.

His mother started to say something, and then cut it off with a hard puff of breath. That was the only warning Draco received, but it might well have saved his life.

His father didn't have weapons, except the ones that no one could take away without torture: his fists and his teeth. He leaped at Draco, and Draco found himself taking a step away and turning sideways before he thought about it consciously. The shadow, his mother's breath, the sound of a body passing through the air, combined to throw him into high alert. He drew his wand and also found himself kicking out before he consciously knew what he was doing, knocking his father to the floor and kneeling on his chest as he stared into his eyes.

His father's hands balled, his eyes flashed, his whole face seemed to contract. He said nothing.

"Why?" Draco whispered. "What do you have to gain, when I'm your only ally in a house full of your enemies?"

"You would let us _go_," his mother said, although Draco didn't think she was responding to his question as much as the whole situation. "You could. You could give us wands. You could get us beyond the wards. But you won't. Do you understand how frustrating that is, to know your only child has turned against you?" Her words were low and scratchy and toneless, and Draco found himself wrinkling his nose in response.

"I've been trying to tell you the truth," Draco said. "That you won't survive without me, that you can't escape on your own, that the world as you know it _has changed. _Did you think that it would stay still while you rotted in Azkaban?"

Narcissa stared at him, and Draco caught a glimpse of the truth in her eyes before she turned her head to hide it. Facing the idea that things had changed was more terrifying, at least for her, than facing the enemies he was telling her about. And the possibility that she might have made the wrong choice when she refused to testify in her own defense and went to Azkaban...

She couldn't face that, at all.

Draco closed his eyes and shook his head, then jabbed his wand warningly into his father's throat when Lucius tried to move. This was impossible. He couldn't keep watching his back around his parents, and he couldn't let them escape and be killed, and he couldn't watch them be dragged back to whatever equivalent of Azkaban the wizarding world would come up with next. There was nothing he _could _do, or that was what it felt like, and he was aching and hurt and tired.

_Potter. I want to be with Potter. He's the only one who cares when I feel things like this. _

But to admit that, especially in front of Lucius, would be a weakness. Draco rose to his feet, locked eyes with his father, and hoped that his words carried the conviction of a threat, that his parents didn't realize how impossible it was that he would _really _carry out what he was saying now. "If you attack me again, then I'll turn you over to the more fanatic of Potter's followers."

"You would not," his mother said, but in such a low voice that Draco decided he could ignore her. His father simply lay still and watched him, eyes burning with more hatred than he had shown any of the Muggleborns he tormented.

_Of course he feels that way. They hadn't personally betrayed his legacy._

"It's the only thing I can do," Draco said. "I have to protect myself, to make sure that I can continue to act no matter what you might do to stop me. That's the lesson you taught me, isn't it, Father? That only the strong _deserve _to survive, that the ones who let sentiment slow them down are sacrificed?" He paused, then added, "Of course, I see now that family loyalty you tried to implant in me is a personal chain to hook around my neck and pull me into line. You never intended to cling to it, not if it would be inconvenient for you. But one of the reasons it maddens you that I'm acting the way I am is that I don't drop everything and run to your side when you tell me it's for family."

This time, his father looked as if he'd been punched in the gut, and Draco reckoned some of his words had finally got through. He made his way out the door, and when he looked back, his mother had crept over to his father and was clutching his hand. But neither of them looked at him, or made any move to stop him.

Draco closed the door hard behind him and shut his eyes as he leaned against it. He was shaking.

That was harder than he had thought it would be, to sever the ties of family, even knowing that they had chosen each other instead of him. Or his mother had chosen his father. His father might not be capable of choosing anything anymore.

_I want Potter._

It was typical of his luck that when he opened his eyes, he got Weasleys instead.


	36. Tidings of the Avalanche

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Thirty-Six—Tidings of the Avalanche_

"What do you want?"

George studied Malfoy critically. His eyes had fluttered when he first saw them, as if he had expected someone else lurking outside his parents' prison, or had a _right _to expect that. Well, perhaps he did, if he was sleeping with Harry. But George couldn't gratify that particular wish.

"We want to talk to you," George said. "We haven't had a chance to talk, have we? Just the four of us?" He knew without glancing over his shoulder that Ron would be cracking his knuckles in that casually threatening way he did so well, and which didn't fit his real personality at all.

"Four?" Malfoy's eyes widened, and he put a hand on his wand, not at all subtly. His eyes darted into the darkness.

_Oh_. "For now," George said firmly, "you might as well accept that I still have access to the mind and emotions of my twin, even though he's dead. It'll make things a lot simpler for all of us, all right? And that way, we don't have to pretend that anyone is crazy or anyone is friendly. Although I think our little brother and you are getting friendly."

_Think about what you say before you say it, _Fred snapped at him as protesting noises came from both Malfoy and Ron. _It might encourage you, sometimes, to get through a day without any mistakes._

"I didn't mean it _that _way," George said, which he would have said to anyone involved just then. "Of course not. We know you're dating our Harry. We just want to find out whether you're interested in killing him. That's all."

Malfoy's mouth dropped open, and he stared at George blankly. George couldn't figure out why until Ron's elbow nudged him in the ribs, and he leaned close to hiss, "Do you think he'd _tell _us if he was?"

George sighed. Malfoys always confused him, especially when they weren't Malfoys pointing their wands at Gryffindors and declaiming grand speeches about how they would finish them off soon. That was the natural place of Malfoys and all their kind, George thought. And the natural place of Fred was at his side, and the natural place of a Ron was with Hermione, and Harry…

That puzzled him a bit, because he couldn't imagine a good natural place for Harry when he thought about it. Well, it was possible that Malfoy would provide one. George focused on Malfoy again and said conversationally, "I think that you're probably good for him, and too smart to destroy the one protection you have. But I don't know for certain. So we came here so we could get a good look at you."

"Would you settle on _one _first-person pronoun and use it in the proper way?" Malfoy's face was pale. "It would help me a great deal to know who I'm addressing and how many of you."

_He's still limited by conventional ways of looking at things, _Fred murmured in the back of his mind. _And you know that Harry isn't, not when he can accept the way we are and he's spoken to lightning. That might be a good sign for Malfoy's ability to stand beside Harry, I don't know._

"Fine," George said, because he thought that Fred's observation was valuable but there was no subtle way to work it into the conversation right now. He'd already been unsubtle enough. "Then _I _want to know why you're so interested in Harry, when you first came into the revolution focused on your parents."

Malfoy stood taller at that, and smiled as though George's words had given him a jolt of bitter strength. "Isn't that obvious?" he asked. "My parents are free now. I _have _to find something else to focus on if I want to remain relevant to the revolution, if I want to have Potter pay attention to me. And focusing on him is the way to do it."

"So you just want the position of power that being his concubine would give you?" George asked. He felt obscurely disappointed. He had hoped that what Malfoy and Harry had was something more than that; Merlin knew that Harry could use something like that, to keep him focused on reality and keep him from vanishing into the struggle between his own power and the strange, savage forces moving around him.

"_Concubine?_" It was good, George thought, that some things hadn't changed and Malfoy could still squeak in outrage. "Who _says _that? Of course I'm not trying to be that." Then he caught control of himself, if the steady crack of his teeth was any indication, and shook his head. "But if you think that I care as much about Potter as about my parents—if you want to hear that I'm in love with him and I'd never betray him and that he's my dream and my hero—then you'll be waiting a long time."

"Bollocks."

_I knew it was a good idea to bring Ron with us, _Fred chirped smugly, and under the circumstances, George refrained from reminding his twin that it hadn't really been his idea. He turned to see Ron stepping forwards. He hadn't drawn his wand. He didn't need to. His stare kept Malfoy pinned in place the way a Stunner might have.

"What?" Malfoy's voice was weak as he spoke the word, like the voice of a newborn ghost.

"I've seen you with him," Ron said. He was so steady, so calm, that George felt a burst of admiration. There were times that they could use that trait, too. Ron might not be the brilliant one in the family, like them, but he was the strongest. "Love? I think that's a little much. But you think about him as more than the key to your parents' safety and your own. People don't look like that at the ones they're manipulating."

Malfoy folded his arms and turned his head away. His voice was muffled, as though he'd bitten on the inside of his cheek to be able to speak at all. "Think that, Weasel, do you? If someone's good enough at manipulating, you'd never know it. There would be too many emotions in their eyes for you to pin down, and you would never know for certain which one was real."

"That's what I mean," Ron said. "You aren't like that. I'm sure that you'd like to be, because it would mean that people couldn't read you and you would be less vulnerable. But you're as open as a first-year's Potions book, especially to someone who's had the chance to watch you. You look at Harry too often. You support him too openly. You feel safe and protected around him where other people feel afraid of his magic. That's not all the time, because sometimes you do try to hide it, but it's there. And there's anger and resentment, too, but I reckon that's only natural. It's not every day that someone falls in love with his enemy."

Malfoy had gone still, the kind of defensive stillness that George had seen a lot of times before. He was ready when Malfoy turned and tried to cast a Memory Charm on them, and he reached out and slapped the git's cheek. Malfoy blinked and gasped, the charm vanishing in a useless puff of air.

"None of that, now," George said, and it was Fred's voice that came from his lips, although their voices had been so alike when they alive that he doubted anyone else noticed. Well, maybe Ron gave a start of wonder. George couldn't focus on him, since they were busy with Malfoy. "It's not a weakness for _us _to know it. Someone else might try to use you against Harry, or use what you just admitted against your parents. We won't."

Malfoy shook his head. His lips were bloodless. "I can't admit that," he said. "You don't know that. It's not true." His eyes darted to Ron as though he thought Ron would punch him for the try at Obliviation.

"I think that you should count us as your allies," George said, and he couldn't have described whether that was Fred's suggestion or his own. "We're the only ones in the revolution, besides you, that you can trust to be fully behind Harry. Some of the others have good intentions, but they're too afraid to stand behind him the way he needs. On the other hand, if he falters, you falter, and your parents are exposed to danger. So you might as well work with us."

Malfoy shook his head stubbornly. Locks of hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat. His eyes were wide and haunted. "You can never trust _me_, though," he said. "There are people who have acted against their own self-interest before. I might turn against Potter. I was never the wisest person in school. You know that I'm selfish. What if I see more power in betraying him to the Ministry than letting him survive?"

"When the Ministry would snatch your parents up and execute them or lock them away again like _that_?" Ron snapped his fingers, making Malfoy jump. "I'll tell you what you're not, is a very good liar. You can't make us believe that you'll possibly turn against Harry with words like _that_."

Malfoy bared his teeth in response, but said nothing. George thought they had cornered him, and he was frantically trying to come up with some way out of the corner.

"Why does this bother you so much?" George asked quietly. There was a contained, waiting stillness in his mind, and he knew that Fred wanted the answer to the question he was asking as much as he did. "Surely you know that you have to trust _someone _so you and your parents can escape what might happen if the rest of them turn against Harry. Why is it so hard, having allies you can depend on?"

* * *

_This was never the way it was meant to be. We were enemies. My life can't change this much._

But Draco knew that that statement would only have made sense when he was locked in the dusty silence of Malfoy Manor. Sometimes he missed it. His life had made so much _sense _then, stripped down to hatred of the Ministry and ways to free his mother and father or at least visit them. If he was back there, he would know where everything was, what to do, what to dream, what to say.

Instead, he had a pair of mad Weasleys who wanted to be his _friends _standing in front of him, and they thought that he was in love with Potter.

Draco ground his teeth. He wasn't about to admit something so ridiculous, especially because he didn't know that he _was _in love with Potter. Weasleys saying something didn't make it so, although he suspected Potter would disagree with him on that.

"You're my allies if I'm Potter's lover, all right," he said, glad that his voice was back under control. "But that doesn't mean that you're my allies in everything that matters to me. Would you give my parents wands?"

"That isn't a fair test." Weasley—Draco grimaced at the thought that he might have to call him "Ron" to distinguish him from his crazy brother—stood with his arms folded and one jaundiced eye fastened on Draco. "You wouldn't give them wands, either."

Draco stared at him. "I would," he said at last, when he could speak through the terror. How could Weasley see that far into him? How could he read what he saw there? They had always been enemies, and that meant Weasley shouldn't have _cared _enough to learn to read him.

"No, you wouldn't," Ron said. "Because you don't trust them. You haven't tried to involve them in any of the discussions the revolution has had. You don't release them from their rooms. You don't trust them, or maybe they're not sane enough to trust. And I know that Harry once hinted your father had attacked you."

_ I never knew that someone understanding and sounding sympathetic would hurt this much._

But Draco knew the truth, all the truths that Weasley wasn't admitting right now. He knew what his father had done to Weasley's little sister in their second year. He knew the long and bitter rivalry between their fathers. He knew that his father had fought against Weasley when he was still a Death Eater, attacking the Department of Mysteries. That meant Weasley couldn't forgive him and care for him the way Draco did, and Draco would trust the fate of his parents to no one else.

_Except Potter. Who you know cares for you, enough to want you and bed you two times, but doesn't care for your family._

Draco shuddered, and snapped, "It doesn't matter. It would be suicide to ask for more than I have, and it would be political suicide for Potter to give me more. But you needn't pretend that _you're _concerned over my family still being imprisoned."

"I don't care that much, no," Weasley said. "But if there's a permanent solution, then I'm in favor of it, because it would give the revolution one less thing to hate Harry for and it would stop distracting him."

Draco relaxed his arm muscles. That much he could understand, and it seemed much likelier to him than a sudden, feigned friendship would have.

"And because you're important to Harry," Weasley finished. "I know he would be concerned if Hermione's parents were the ones in this situation, or mine. So I have to be concerned about yours, too."

Draco ground his teeth and shook his head. "You don't have to pretend, I told you."

"This isn't pretending," Weasley said. "This is what has to happen now, because Harry wants you." His eyes were as bright and unflinching and painful as sunlight. Draco had thought Potter's gaze was bad, but at least Potter knew something about wildness and secrets and darkness and boring through walls to get what he wanted. Weasley looked as if he didn't know the same things and yet was still just as strong. "So. I think, based on what we've seen, that we can trust you. Right?" He cast a glance at the twin.

The twin grinned at Draco. Draco cringed on instinct. He had always hated it when they did that in Hogwarts. Their pranks were difficult, humiliating, and hard to recover from, and he thought it wouldn't have changed that much now that there was only one of them.

"As much as we trust anyone who's not family or Harry," said the madman. "Sure."

"It's not the same," Draco said. "I would still sacrifice anyone and anything if it would help me better my family's position." He was speaking quickly, the words tripping over each other. It was the way he would have spoken to Potter, but Potter would have known enough to listen and not argue, to give Draco the deep silence—or the hands and tongue—he needed. Weasleys always argued.

"No, you wouldn't," Ron said. "I thought you would betray Harry to the Ministry, but you haven't."

"Because he's my best protection. Sleeping with him is a way of influencing him."

"Not the best way," the madman said suddenly. "None of his relationships since school have ever lasted long. It would be best if you became his friend. But you didn't even have to do that. He became fascinated with you instead." He broke off, nodding his head as though listening to a voice inside it. Draco shuddered, not wanting to imagine whose the voice was or where it came from. "Yes," he said. "I concur. You could have used the fascination against him in different ways. You could have asked for other things. But instead you were content to wait until he raided Azkaban and got _everyone _free, and in return you swore that oath that your parents wouldn't escape or cause trouble."

Draco licked his lips and closed his eyes. He was out of defenses, and he didn't know if the Weasleys would let him keep _any _of the secondary shields that he might have used to protect himself.

"Is it so bad that someone thinks you're a good man?" Weasley asked, and then he gripped Draco's shoulder. Draco blinked and opened his eyes, to find Weasley leaning in earnestly, staring into his face as though Draco would give him the answers through his expression instead of his mouth. "Is it so bad that someone values you for more than what you can do for them?"

Draco shook his head. "You value me because I'm important to Potter. You just admitted that, it's not as though you can deny it." _Well, they still could. _Draco would have tried if it was him. Then again, Gryffindors rarely lied because they weren't quick-witted enough to think of good deceptions.

"As long as you keep on supporting him and your parents and showing that you don't want to kill anyone because of blood prejudice, then I think you'll do well," Weasley said. "And that's enough for me to define you as good in the circumstances."

Draco's lips were so dry that he didn't think he could use them to speak, but he tried. "You don't know everything I've done."

"Then tell us." The madman, slipping forwards as if he thought that Draco needed someone on the other side to keep from fleeing. "We can't know about it or possibly forgive it if you don't tell us."

Draco shivered. But he couldn't tell them about almost betraying Potter to the Ministry, because that _would _cause him to lose any place he might have had here. He would have to be careful about what he said.

"I mean that you're not considering what I did in the past," he said. He thought it a feeble defense, but then again, they were Gryffindors. They would have listened to and believed shakier things. "That we were enemies, that I tried to trick and betray Potter more than once, that I sold information about him to the newspapers—"

"You seem as if you're loyal now," Weasley said. "And that's what we need to know. If you betray Harry now, then of course we'll hunt you down and hurt you. But that's not the same thing."

Draco passed a hand across his eyes. He was shaking. He wondered if it would be so bad to accept the help of the Weasleys, if that would give him some idea of what to do with his parents.

_Your parents would never accept help that they knew had come from the Malfoys' hereditary enemies. _

Draco wondered for a moment if his mother would, and then dismissed the notion. She was thoroughly Malfoy these days, after the way she had bound herself to Lucius and taken up the notion that she had to listen to him and do exactly as he did. There was nothing Black left in her, nothing pragmatic that would say it was all right for her to accept a certain kind of help because the Weasleys hadn't been her enemies.

"Yes, all right," he said. "But I can only promise to be loyal as long as Potter and you can protect me and my parents. If something better comes along, then I'll abandon you as fast as I joined you. My first loyalty has to be to my family." He wondered if he sounded half as desperate to them as he did to himself.

The Weasleys seemed to have decided that he did, or that they had nothing to worry about for another reason. They smirked at him, and then the madman nodded and said, "If you come back to the lab, then I think we can come up with a few ideas for making sure that your parents are safer."

_And who is the we being invoked here? _Draco thought, but he knew it was the best offer he was going to get. Even Potter hadn't said that he would get the same kind of dedicated help. He went with them.

Maybe the universe knew what it was doing, after all, when it arranged for him to run into Weasleys first.

* * *

Harry waited a few minutes after he had shut the door of his room behind him, but nothing happened. No one came knocking and demanded an audience. No one tried to break it down and insist that they had to duel with him for Pedlar's honor or because she was an ally. No representative came from the Ministry with a miraculous offer of truce.

Draco didn't seek him out, asking for help.

Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out the small scrap of parchment that Hermione had sent him. He hoped it was a sign she had regained control of her own mind, rather than being under Imperius, as he and Ron had discussed. He couldn't be sure, though, and he didn't dare send something back until he was.

It was a prophecy, and the copy of it was in Hermione's neat handwriting, but Harry knew it had to be much older than that. It made sense that the Ministry would have access to copies of prophecies after all, that the stores he had smashed in the Department of Mysteries had not been their only ones.

_He cannot stand who will not fly,_

_ He cannot live who did not die,_

_ He cannot brave who cannot yield,_

_ He cannot conquer, he cannot shield._

_ The one branded by fire to fire returns,_

_ The one he trusted is the one who turns._

_ Into heat he goes, who out of heat came,_

_ And the stag calls him to embrace the flame._

_ He will end cleft from his true desire,_

_ And so he ends, or else ends the fire._

Harry licked his lips. The meaning of the prophecy seemed straightforward, at least compared to the one he had labored under when he was trying to kill Voldemort. He couldn't stay with the revolution; he had to fly away on this lightning road that the stag had shown him. He couldn't stay the leader of the revolution because he couldn't make compromises and most of his people didn't trust him, and that seemed to indicate that he couldn't protect them or resist the Ministry for long, either.

He would go back to flame the same way he'd come out of it, and that sign was the lightning scar on his forehead. Someone he trusted would betray him. He already knew what the stag calling on him to embrace the flame meant.

Those last two lines, though.

Harry clenched his fingers through his hair. They sounded as if they meant that he would lose Draco, or else he would lose everything else—the future that the lightning had promised him, his life, his promises, his friends. If he had to choose between them, Harry knew what he would have to do.

But he also knew that the choice would destroy him.

He closed his eyes. The memory of the books he had read when he was trying to think of ways to take the danger of the battle on himself came back, and their cautions against prophecy. They could be interpreted so many ways that those interpretations often influenced what happened. People would do certain things—the way Voldemort had chosen to mark Harry instead of Neville—because they were so sure they were right.

This prophecy was more straightforward than the others. Less room for ambiguity, less room for any choices except the one that it seemed the Ministry and the lightning wanted him to make.

Harry opened his eyes, and looked again at the last two lines.

But he already saw another way. He would simply have to seek the right moment to make that choice.


	37. Councils of War

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Thirty-Seven—Councils of War_

"These are the people I've brought to meet you."

Hermione would have said that she could see that for herself, but she had no reason to wish to irritate Noble or the others she had gathered here, so she inclined her head politely and murmured her name. Most of the people around the table would probably already know it. That didn't matter much to Hermione. The ones who didn't deserved to know who they were helping, the witch with the association with the infamous Harry Potter and Ron Weasley.

The witch at the end of the table picked up a pair of spectacles on a stick so that she could see Hermione through them. She had dark hair, dark eyes that Hermione thought might be violet (or at least her purple robes made them look that way), and a fussy expression. Hermione knew she served on the Wizengamot, though she couldn't remember her name immediately.

The man at the other end of table looked like the kind of brute that the Ministry would send to arrest people brawling in a pub at three in the morning. He had intelligent eyes, though his thick ginger eyebrows and beard almost concealed them. Hermione had seen him working in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, although again, she didn't know his name or the office he held.

The third person, seated on the side of the table halfway between the other two, smiled and held out her hand to Hermione. Hermione blinked and reached out to take it, although she couldn't help staring at the woman's blonde hair and the pink bows that clung to the ends of her thick braids.

"Yes, Auntie Dolores did rather soil the image of anyone who wants to wear this sort of thing for years to come, didn't she?" the woman agreed with a small bob of her head. "Not to mention the name of the family. I was married briefly, and I usually call myself Greta Rudolf, to shelter under the protection of my husband's priggishness. Not Greta Umbridge."

"I, er, the resemblance is startling," Hermione said, because the honesty tumbled out of her before she could stop herself. It was. Greta didn't look like a toad, because in her the toad-features were smoothed down and came out as mostly large and broad. Not good-looking but not horrible, either. Still, to someone who had spent a whole year glaring at Umbridge where she sat at the High Table, Hermione doubted it would ever be hidden.

"Exactly." Greta settled back into her seat. "And everyone who knows me as her niece thinks that I share Auntie's greed and her frankly _horrendous _dress sense." She sniffed. "There are more options with pink than most people know about."

Noble took a step forwards and seized command of the meeting again. "You know Greta Umbridge, then, Undersecretary to the Minister," she told Hermione. "And this is Juno Raggleworth, currently the head of Special Financial Investigations on the Wizengamot."

"How do you do, Madam Raggleworth," Hermione said ceremoniously, and inclined her head. She knew Raggleworth by reputation, and she liked formality and traditions. If she had unbent enough to work with someone she knew was Muggleborn, though, Hermione was already one ahead.

Raggleworth studied her intently through the glasses for another moment, then laughed and shook her head. "I will accept this one," she told Noble, her voice high and piercing. Hermione kept from flinching, but only barely. Perhaps there was a reason that the Wizengamot had settled Raggleworth on the Special Financial Investigations committee. She wouldn't have to speak aloud in public very often. "She has some sense of what is proper."

Noble only nodded as if to say that she had never doubted Hermione's ability to do that, and then turned around and indicated the man at the end of the table. "Luke Smithson, the new Coordinator of the Hit Wizards."

Hermione made a little bow to him. Smithson took less time than Raggleworth to smile, and although he revealed several broken teeth when he did so, Hermione could relax. She found him less intimidating that way.

"You're the one the Minister used the Imperius Curse on?" he asked. Hermione blinked and glanced at Noble. She hadn't realized that the Mind-Healer would have told them so much already.

"I had to," Noble said, in response to her glance. Her voice had gone gentle. "To impress on them how serious the matter was."

"Serious?" Raggleworth laughed again. "Of course it's serious, but more serious crimes go unreported every day. You must know that we are here for our own purposes, child, as well as yours."

"Of course," Hermione said back. "But this will give you some grounds to move against the Minister, won't it?"

"Yes," said Greta at once. Hermione wasn't surprised that she was the first one to speak. For one thing, she was younger than the others, probably less used to measuring her words, and for another, she seemed nicer than they were, as if she had decided that politics really was a game, not a calling. "Frankly, I don't care that much about the revolution. They've been moving around, changing a few things that needed to be changed. I _am _sorry about Minister Duplais. I think he would have stopped doing stupid things and listening so much to pure-bloods, given enough time. But this new Minister is making a cock-up of things."

"She's been careful enough to let others take the fall for her, though," Smithson rumbled. "Me. The Head Auror. Those she sends out in public to speak for her, or write for her." He looked hard at Hermione. "You'll be willing to donate your Pensieve memories to the cause, so that we can _prove _she's done it?"

"Yes, I will," Hermione said, and bit back the automatic question she wanted to ask, about the people they were dealing with who _wouldn't _have wanted to do that. "How soon do you think we can bring this to trial? Or will it be a trial?" She saw Noble crooking her elbow at a chair on the opposite side of the table from Greta, and took it. Noble settled behind her, glancing from face to face like a hawk getting ready to hunt mice.

"Not exactly," Greta said. "We think it'll be more effective to spread rumors first, and then let the news ripple out until the point comes where we can hang the Minister on a rope of her own making." Her eyes glittered. "You know, the way she had you try and hang your friends."

Hermione grinned back. She could like at least one member of the Umbridge family, it seemed.

"I had not precisely agreed with that," Raggleworth said in her shrillest tones, or at least Hermione _hoped _they were her shrillest tones. She was going to start fearing for her eardrums if they weren't. "I had hoped that we might convict the Minister in a storm of fire and guilt. Best to have this done quickly."

"And _I _think that we should wait until the Minister is concentrating on Potter's revolution, and then strike." Smithson drummed his hand on the table once, producing a hollow _boom_. "We will be most effective if we time ourselves in coordination with that."

Greta caught Hermione's eye and shrugged a little, a small smile melting over her face. "When I said that _we _think it," she murmured, "I might have overstated the case."

Hermione smiled. She had often grown weary of political negotiations while working in the house-elf legal department, but on the other hand, this time she was taking revenge and helping her friends all at once. She settled down to dicker.

* * *

"Sit down, Ron."

Ron did, looking very solemn. Harry gave him a smile, hoping it would help him feel more at ease, but if anything, Ron just clamped his hands down on his knees as though he thought that meant Harry would strike. Harry shook his head.

"It isn't anything bad," he reassured him. "I'm not about to regale you with stories of what I did to Draco the last time we met." That won him a smile, at least. "I just want you to take over leadership of the revolution."

Ron's freckles stood out on his face as he gaped at Harry. Then he snorted. "For future reference, mate, when you want to speak the same English as normal people," he said. "That's not what most people mean when they say _it isn't anything bad._"

"But it isn't," Harry said, and when Ron looked at him as though he was about to have a heart attack, he sighed, reached out, and clasped his friend's hands. Ron stared at them as though he'd never seen them before. Harry shook them back and forth. "You know that I can't stay in charge of the revolution. Too many people distrust me. Some of them are like Pedlar, just going to hate me no matter what I do to make it up to them, but some of them are good people who just happen to be misled."

"If they follow _her_, then they aren't good people," Ron muttered, sounding resentful.

Harry shrugged. "I can't really help that. But some of them would only do the wrong thing out of fear or hatred. If I step down from the leadership and you take over, then they don't have as many reasons to experience those emotions."

Ron stared at him with narrowed eyes. "And you really think that _no one _is going to say that you're behind me, ready to use your magic when someone disagrees with me or turns against me? You know they'll say that. You know that they'll see me as someone who owes allegiance to you, and not an independent leader."

"Let them speak that way, then," Harry said firmly. "To be honest, I think the only people who will _definitely _talk that way are the ones who'd follow Pedlar no matter what. The ones who let their paranoia and their disappointment take over from their faith in the revolution. They're stupid, and the ones who trust you and want to trust you more will shut them down."

"You think." Ron was chewing his lip.

Harry laughed a little. "Well, yeah. But these are all things that _could _happen and haven't yet. Are you telling me that you're afraid?"

Ron would have bristled at the accusation once and launched himself into the thing he was being dared to do, no matter what it was. It was a trait that had always exasperated Hermione, who was usually the one who had to treat the wounds or put up with the scrapes and bruises that Ron collected doing those things.

Now, Ron met his eyes and nodded. "This is a group of people that you couldn't keep hold of," he said, "and you have the reputation and the power that I never will."

"I don't think what they need is power, though," Harry said. "It's leadership, and that's not something I managed to provide for them. You can. I know you can because of the way that you were training the quatrains before I got involved. Those people _worked _together. I shouldn't have stood aside from the beginning and obsessed myself with books, but when I did, the revolution was hanging together except for a few people who complained. I want this to be able to work."

Ron frowned and shook his head. "But what's the long-term plan? Are we going to keep fighting the Ministry, or do we surrender?"

Harry clapped Ron on the shoulder. "I can't wait to find out, General Weasley."

Ron's mouth dropped open. Harry grinned at him. He didn't understand why Hermione was always complaining about _that _part. It was a good look on him.

"But—but you can't just leave everything up to me!" Ron spluttered. "Are you _crazy_?"

"What part of 'you're now the leader of the revolution' didn't you understand?" Harry stood up and cocked his head at Ron. "You're the one who has to make the plans and deal with Pedlar's complainers, now. Good luck."

"But you already made plans," Ron protested feebly. "Plans to negotiate with the Ministry and pick out people who could do that. Didn't you?"

Harry nodded. "But I don't think I can judge the people involved as well as you can, since you trained most of them. Look them over. Judge whether they have a chance in hell of getting Clearwater to listen to them, or whether they're only doing this because they're desperate and they want the revolution to end so they can go back to their normal lives. You're a better judge of character than I am."

"Not always," Ron muttered. "I thought that Pedlar was a good addition to our fighting forces when I was training her."

"She might be." Harry rolled his eyes when Ron turned to stare at him. "Because that's her place. Picking quarrels and fighting with the people who disagree with her. She wants everything to be settled with a duel. Well, not now, maybe," he had to add, because Pedlar since he had put the brand on her face was a different creature, avoiding any place he might be walking and taking most of her followers with her. "You could use her as shock troops. But I agree that she's not much use when it comes to planning strategy, and if you decided to negotiate with the Ministry, then she couldn't have a place in that, either."

Ron exhaled hard. "What about Malfoy and his parents? Are you going to still personally guarantee harm on anyone who attacks them?"

The mere _thought _of someone trying to harm Draco made flames curl around the base of Harry's nails. He pulled his hand sheepishly away from Ron when Ron gestured, but nodded. "Yeah. Because there's really nothing else that I can do, and I don't want to prove the people who think that stepping down from leadership means that I'm just going to vanish right."

Ron nodded, then lowered his head into his hands. "I wish Hermione was here," he said softly.

Harry winced as guilt flashed through him. He had been so involved in thinking about the prophecy Hermione had sent him and how it applied to him and how he could counteract it, if the lightning stag and the prophecy were right, that he'd forgotten to tell Ron what he thought it implied about Hermione's state of mind. "She might not be too far away," he muttered.

Ron sat up as though someone had literally lit a fire under him. "What?" he demanded. "What are you talking about?"

Harry dug into his pocket and found the scrap of parchment that contained the prophecy. "She sent me this," he said. "I don't think she could have done that if part of her mind wasn't free and struggling for the freedom to express itself. There's been nothing since then, but it could be—it could be a good sign." He fell silent and licked his lips. The shine in Ron's eyes made him sure that he should have shared this earlier.

Ron held the paper in trembling fingers and stared at the prophecy. From the look in his eyes, he wasn't reading it so much as reading the proof that Hermione was fighting her way free and coming back to their side. Harry sat there watching him and wondered if he would ever love Draco that much.

_Not that much, maybe, _he thought, recalling his words about Pedlar a few minutes ago. _It's not that kind of love. Compare it to Ron and Hermione's, and it won't look right, just the same way that Pedlar doesn't look or act right out of the dueling ring. But in its own way, I think it burns just as bright._

Even if Draco didn't love him back. Even if Harry ended up with his reputation draining away because of the need to protect two former Death Eaters that most people still hated. That was the way it was. When he finally found someone he could commit to, as most of the people he dated hadn't been, then he would commit with all his heart. He had always known it, and so he was more at peace now than he would otherwise have been with it.

Ron sat back at last, shaking his head. "What does this _mean_?" he asked, holding out the prophecy so that Harry could see it. He didn't know that the words were already seared on Harry's mind in letters bright enough, he thought, to satisfy even the lightning.

"I don't know about every line." Harry leaned forwards and tried to reclaim the piece of parchment, but Ron shook his head and held it close to him. Harry smiled. He could respect that need. "But I think it refers to me, and it sounds like I have to make some kind of choice and that someone will betray me and I'll go away."

Ron's face turned white. "And you think I might be the traitor?" he asked. "Is that why you kept the message away from me for so long?"

_Shit. _That was another reason Harry was just no good at this leadership thing. He didn't think about what his actions would look like to other people half the time. He shook his head ruefully. "I kept it to myself because I was trying so hard to deal with the prophecy and the way it might apply to me, and I had to think it through and come to terms with it before I showed it to anyone else. I didn't mean to. I should have told you ages ago that Hermione might have her mind free again. Sorry."

Ron nodded at him, but he was still locked on the tangent that Harry thought was _just _a tangent, not something he was actually concerned about. "But you think that one of us might be the traitor?"

"I don't know," Harry said simply. "I have no idea. There are so many people around me who would have better motives for it, I would be surprised if it's you, actually. You don't have any _reason _to betray me." _If it's Draco, then I think I would let the lightning take me. _"But I told you, I didn't keep the prophecy from you for that reason. I had to decide what I was going to do."

"What are you going to do, then?" Ron settled back in his chair as though he was preparing for a long discussion.

Harry stood up and clapped him on the shoulder again. "Something that I need to do more research on before I'm sure that it'll work. Now, leader, get out there and lead, while I spend some more time with my books."

Ron looked as if he would have liked to ask more questions, but in the end he just nodded and stood up to leave the room. Harry watched him go, smiling slightly, but dropped the smile as soon as the door closed and he was sure that Ron wouldn't turn around and suddenly come back inside for any reason.

_I don't know if this will work. I don't know what the prophecy means in its entirety, or that those last two lines offer the choice I think they do._

_ But it's the only way I can see to escape this bloody mess, and that means I choose it._

He had another reason for not telling Ron the details, and it had nothing to do with fearing that his best friend was a traitor. It was, simply and deeply, that he was sure Ron would protest passionately, and it would probably take months of argument to convince him that Harry's proposed solution was better than losing the war or losing Draco.

* * *

Draco leaned against the door of the room that contained his parents and watched them eating the soup and fresh fruit that he'd managed to bring them. It seemed that the people in charge of the revolution's food supplies for the prisoners had belonged to Pedlar. They were frightened to deny Draco a good quality of food now that they knew she was out of favor and out of power. Draco thought he might have managed to bring a meal that would please his parents for once.

Not so. Although his mother bit into the peach with a look of dazed happiness, his father pushed the soup away after a few bites, sneering. "There is no real meat in this," he said.

"That's because it's vegetable soup," Draco said, and didn't try to disguise the mockery in his voice.

His mother dropped the peach, suddenly fiddling with her fingers as if she thought that something would explode in front of her if she touched it. Draco's father sneered and stood taller. "Of course. You wouldn't want to give us something that we could eat with a knife or fork, would you? You're starving us of the things that would mark us as proud and free."

"You have no idea what you're saying," Draco said, "or I think you would try to say something that makes _sense_. You wouldn't eat soup that had meat in it with a knife or fork, either. And of course I'm not trying to make you less masculine, which seems to be what you're implying, or less free. Nothing I can do to you would compare to the Azkaban that you carry in your head."

His mother's eyes darted so anxiously back and forth between them that Draco had to look away from her; it would drive him mad to watch that. His father, meanwhile, had gone still and was watching Draco with the kind of narrow-eyed glance that Draco knew had always signaled trouble in the past, when Lucius felt himself threatened and on the edge of losing respect from someone. "Explain," he said at last.

"Isn't it obvious?" Draco gestured between them, at everything from the way they sat to the way that his mother leaned unconsciously towards his father when a few inches separated them. "Prison touched you, changed you. It changed your sense of time; you still think it's seven years ago. It changed your sense of your own limitations. You think you're owed revenge, but the people you could take revenge on are all in powerful positions in the Ministry, out of your reach, so instead you make sure that you lash out at the ones who are actually trying to _help _you. You care more about pride than the practical realities of your survival, which wouldn't have been the case at one point. And above all, you sneer at me and assault me verbally for not living up to the Malfoy tradition. The Azkaban that you carry in your minds has prevented you from realizing that you haven't, either. How could you when you were in your cells, powerless?"

Narcissa began to cry softly. Lucius ignored her, instead staring at Draco with eyes that looked like cracked ice. Draco began to wonder if he had got through at last, if Lucius actually had to think about what he was saying because he had no choice.

Then Lucius turned his head away and murmured, "What you say isn't true, _can't _be true. There's no reason to think it is…"

"Yes, it is," Draco said, and he was relentless. "You're the one who's thrown away the chances that I could get you, and forfeited the chance for other people to think that you're sane and should be given your freedom. You're the ones who are so devoted to each other that you would give up on _me_, on the meaning of family."

"Draco, Draco," whispered his mother. "You could have come with us, once upon a time, before the prison."

"Then you realize that Azkaban changed you?" That was more than Draco had hoped for in the first conversation. He leaned forwards.

"What your mother means," Lucius said, overriding the answer that Narcissa tried to give, his voice as harsh as a bray, "is that you could have come with us back when you were devoted to the welfare of the family. Now you're not, and we're the only ones who are left to carry it on."

Draco turned and walked out of the room. He didn't intend to give them a chance to argue, to discuss, to talk about anything. That was another thing he had learned from his conversation with the Weasleys. He had little enough power in the revolution as it was, and he wasn't willing to spend time and energy talking with his parents when he could more profitably spend it elsewhere.

But the look he had seen in his father's eyes…

He thought something might be shifting there. Something coming home. It was worth another try, anyway.

He reached out to open the door of his own rooms, and someone stuck a wand in the middle of his back. Draco froze, still staring forwards, not shifting his weight. He had to know the extent and nature of the threat before he would feel comfortable attacking them.

"Now," a voice whispered right next to his ear. He knew it was Pedlar's from the crazed undertone to it as much as anything else. "Now, we'll see what kind of price Potter is willing to pay."


	38. In the Heart of the Fire

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Thirty-Eight—In the Heart of the Fire_

After Draco had sat and watched Pedlar for some time, he began to wonder how she ever planned to get away with this.

She had herded him into a small supply cupboard, or what the revolution had used as a supply cupboard; Draco thought the original owners of the manor must have built it as a pantry or perhaps a place for their house-elves to stand when they'd done something wrong. It was only five strides long, a little wider than that, and the ceiling overhead came down uncomfortably close. The walls were brick, and there was no food or weapons. Pedlar cast an _Incarcerous _on him and left him on bound on the floor in the middle of it, while she checked out the door for signs of approaching supporters.

That might be the way she planned on doing it, Draco supposed. Enough people moving together could conceal his floating body—or corpse—in the middle of them. And no one would be surprised that Pedlar and her followers were sticking together, after what had happened to them when they tried to act independently. They could get him out and away, and murder him, or wait for him to die when his father did something crazy and they could feel "justified" in killing him in return, or send word to Harry and lay down whatever terms they wanted. Draco had no illusions. Potter would burn the world and the future for him.

_Is he Potter or Harry? _

Draco shook away the thoughts. There were more important things he had to find out, such as why the brand that Pedlar carried on her cheek hadn't come to life and burned her down to bones the way that Potter had said it should.

"You really think that killing me is going to reconcile you with the Ministry?" he asked. "Or get you revenge on him?"

Pedlar turned and glared at him. This close, Draco could catch the smell of scorched skin from the brand. He blinked, wondering if Pedlar had never properly taken care of it, or if it was a magical effect rather than a physical one. The last thought was probably the closest to the truth.

"You have no idea," she said.

Draco paused as though she had caught him off-guard, and then nodded slowly. "Well, I might not," he said. "I thought Harry had stopped you from doing anything like this with the brand, but he didn't."

Pedlar touched her burned cheek with one hand, but the crazed smile never wavered. "It would burn me if I betrayed the revolution, he said. I don't plan to betray them or go to the Ministry. I only want him punished."

Draco grimaced. _Damn literal spells. _In this case, though, it probably wasn't Harry's fault. It would also rely on Pedlar's perceptions—couldn't help but rely on them, since the spell was meant to begin hurting her if she even thought about betraying the revolution. If she sincerely thought she was helping her comrades, then she could do anything she wanted to him or Potter. In her little world, they weren't part of the effort they'd helped to _found_.

"I see," he said. "But will torturing me get you the satisfaction that you want? I can scream, but that won't hurt Potter."

"You're wrong," Pedlar said, her smile flickering for a moment as though someone had raked away the embers it relied on to exist. Draco wondered why playing into her hand like this would make her look sulky. Perhaps she didn't want to consider herself a torturer and a murderer even though she had to know that it would end that way. "Killing you would hurt him worse than anything else I could do."

Well. Draco had to admit that. He slumped back in his ropes and sighed. "Fine. And I have nothing to trade to you."

"You're wrong."

Draco shook his head, confused. Some of the time, Pedlar seemed to want to negotiate with him, and some of the time she wanted to hurt him, and sometimes she was only focused on hurting Harry through him. He never knew what she might come up with next. "I am?"

"Yes." Pedlar took a step forwards. "I know that you came here intending to betray us all. I can never be fooled. There were too many questions, too many efforts to get closer to Potter when it was obvious that the main current of the revolution was bending away from him. The Ministry sent you to betray Potter, and you think that because you changed your mind and slept with him, you're innocent."

_She's going to blackmail me. _Draco licked his lips. He wondered if that information would cut the heart out of the love that Harry bore for him.

But then he shook his head again. No, he didn't think so. If he had intended that, he had changed his mind, and he could tell Harry that truthfully. No matter what Pedlar wanted, she was never going to get Harry to change his focus on Draco and keeping his people from simply surrendering to the Ministry.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked, and tried to cringe and whine a little. If she thought that he was cowardly enough to betray Harry for a chance at life, so much the better. It would give him time and a bit of breathing room to decide what to do.

"Go to him," Pedlar said. "Tell him that you need to talk to him alone, that it's important. Use whatever stratagems you have to. And when you bring him into the room, it'll be this one." Her eyes shone like mad stars.

Draco stared. "You're going to duel him?"

"Kill him," Pedlar said. "My failing was thinking that he understood the rules of honor in the first place. I will make sure that he dies, and I will also make sure that he does it so suddenly no one can prevent it." Her hand went down and rubbed at her wand. Then she reached up and touched the brand on her cheek again.

Draco swallowed against his pounding heart. Really, perhaps the best thing he could do was go to Harry and hope that this worked. Then Harry would walk in, and Pedlar would try to kill him, and he could annihilate her instead. "How do I know that you'll let me live when you've murdered him?" he asked. "You hate me. You hate my parents. It would be best if you eliminated us all at the same time."

Pedlar smiled at me. "You'd almost like that, I think. Anything to be free from a lifetime of licking his boots."

Draco kept still this time. Sometimes Pedlar seemed sane, sometimes she seemed as if she had already gone insane, but he didn't want to give her too many ideas.

"If you leave," Pedlar said, "then I have no quarrel with you. You didn't succeed in betraying the revolution, and you thought that Potter was the one you should spend time with, so you didn't damage the rest of us. Your parents will have to die, since they're Death Eaters, but I can offer them a quick and painless death."

Draco looked at her, silently waiting. If Pedlar had any subtlety left, she ought to know that Draco bore the Dark Mark on his arm, too, and had no reason to trust her offer of mercy.

Pedlar sighed. "You're not the important one," she said. "You were a child during the war. But your parents were not, and Potter was more than a child. He still is. I will kill him, and them. But I can spare you. There's no reason to kill someone I can let live with little effort."

Draco shivered. He couldn't help it. Pedlar's rules were incomprehensible to him, which meant any effort to betray her might be futile.

Pedlar took a step towards him. "Do you do it? Or do I start my vengeance on Potter by depriving him of his lover?"

Draco opened his mouth to say he would do it. He still thought it unlikely that she could take Harry. And it meant that he had the chance to warn Harry, in some subtle way, before he came to the storage room.

The door behind Pedlar dissolved.

It was a strange thing to watch, so strange that Draco found himself waking up that night from a dream of it. The splinters of wood caught fire and spread out like stars, a spangled constellation glowing in the dark. The fire between them formed into a series of white fists and knives and stabbed, seeking, into the room. But they didn't come fast enough to make the air unlivable with the heat, which was what Draco would have anticipated.

He knew only one person who had that much control over his fire and that much desire not to hurt Draco, and that meant he'd rolled away as much as the ropes would let him and was gone from the direct line of sight on Pedlar before the door had stopped dissolving.

Pedlar turned. Her mouth was open, her eyes blazing. She had one hand on her wand, and rocked back and forth as though she was dancing.

Draco winced. He suspected that it wouldn't take much effort for Potter to kill her, but that very effortlessness was likely to make Harry feel more guilty afterwards.

The flames started to billow into the storage room—and then stopped. They formed a tunnel instead, bending up and down like long sheaves of grass disturbed by the motion of a body through them. Potter strode into the doorway and stood there, considering them as if he had been interrupted at dinner and didn't know how annoyed he should be.

"Come on, then." Pedlar was shuffling back and forth now, and her voice was harsh with delight, like a crow's. "Attack me. You wish to. I wish to defend. You will have all the time in the world now. You can do whatever you wish. No one else will blame you. I kidnapped your lover. You have no reason to hold back."

Draco saw the smile that crossed Harry's face at that. It was a smile that seemed to contain all the coldness that the fire had left behind, and Draco shuddered and pressed his back against that back wall.

Harry's gaze crossed him and seemed to soften. But the next moment it was back on Pedlar, and Draco had to wonder if he had imagined that softness.

"I won't kill you here," Potter said. "We're the only ones here, and your followers could always accuse me of murdering you far away from everyone else because I was ashamed of your accusations and wanted to silence 'such a strong protesting voice.' Of course they would say something like that, and I don't intend to give them the chance." He smiled again, and Draco licked his lips and ducked his head down to hide from the frost. "So it'll be a public duel. Right after you free Draco."

"You'll take back the promise of the duel," Pedlar said, although it was hard to tell, because her voice had thickened so much. "I took him in the first place so that you would have to come to me. I let him go, and you'll murder me and not think about it."

"I'll murder you?" Potter gave her another glance, up and down, that Draco thought actually measured her magical prowess as well as her height and strength. "You think that, and yet you're offering battle to me anyway?" He shook his head. "Well, it doesn't matter. I've told you why I'm doing this." Then his smile vanished and his voice lowered. "But if you try to kill Draco before the duel, then I will make sure you suffer. They say burning is the most painful death. Did you know that I can make you burn for hours, and not perish? That's what I will do if you don't give him back to me, unharmed."

Pedlar didn't seem to take account of the threat, which Draco would have; hell, he didn't know that he would ever be able to forget it, or react calmly again if Potter wanted to wrap them in flames. She strained forwards, standing now in place, and reminded Draco of a dog pulling against the leash. Dogs, crows, everything but a human being, he thought, as his mind charged back and forth, half-crazed.

"How do I know the brand you put on me won't kill me before then?" Pedlar asked, and her mouth ran with foam.

"Because it hasn't so far," Potter said, and his eyes shone with annoyance. Above Draco's head, a small portion of the wall began to smolder. Potter glanced at it and it stopped. Then he caught Draco's gaze in what could have been an apology. Draco nodded. He didn't know what else he was supposed to do. "I will be more careful about the way I word my binding spells next time," Potter said.

Then he paused and laughed. "No, I won't," he said, and laughed again.

_Maybe he is going mad. _Draco kept his face straight and his eyes empty of any suspicion about that, though. Mad or not, Potter was rescuing him, and the rest of the so-called revolution would have left Draco to Pedlar's tender mercies, if they did anything at all for him. Potter was the one in love with him.

A crazy lover might not be something Draco had dreamed of, but on the other hand, someone who could protect him was not to be sniffed at.

"I accept," Pedlar whispered, and then went on repeating it, in louder and louder tones, until Potter gestured. The ropes holding Draco fell to ash. Draco stood up, rubbing his wrists and using the gesture to keep away the moment when he would have to face Potter head-on and directly.

Potter stepped towards him and took Draco's wrists in his hands, lifting them to his mouth so that he could kiss them. There was a tingle of warmth, sweet and savage, and the pain in Draco's wrists vanished, along with the rope burns. He stared at the unmarked skin, and then up at Potter.

Harry winked. "I can occasionally manage little tricks," he said, and gestured towards the door of the storage room. Pedlar was already waiting there, her head bowed and her fingers scraping restlessly up and down her wand.

Draco expected Potter to use the flame-trumpets to call everyone together again, the way that he had the first time when he wanted them to see him branding Pedlar, but instead, he simply raised his hands and separated his fingers as if he were clawing at an invisible wall. Fire breathed in the empty space between them, and Draco heard a voice in his mind, speaking deep there, a neutral voice with a hiss behind it like the crackling of flames. It sounded weirdly to Draco like the times that he had heard Potter and the Dark Lord speak Parseltongue

_There will be a duel in the clearing outside the mansion between Pedlar and Potter, within five minutes._

"That will do," Harry said, as though someone had asked him, and then reached out and took Draco's hand, tugging gently at it. Draco followed along as Harry towed him down the corridor and towards the nearest door that led out on the lawn. There was the stir and rustle and murmur of people all around them, and stares from those they passed, and now and again the terrified sobs of someone who had probably never experienced Legilimency or Occlumency or any invasion of their minds.

Pedlar wasn't one of those people who sobbed, Draco noticed. She didn't seem to notice anything at all except that she thought her chance to kill Harry Potter had finally arrived. She followed along in a happy dream, shaking her head now and then and whistling beneath her breath.

Draco would have felt sorry for her, except he had the impression that he would need all his pity for himself.

And perhaps for Potter, who he had no doubt would win the duel…and perhaps kill off some of the trust that people had in him, and some part of himself.

It was a new experience, to feel pity for people who weren't his parents. Draco didn't know if he liked it.

* * *

Harry knew his solution wasn't perfect. No matter what, someone could always object to that. If he had killed Pedlar in the storage room for stealing Draco—as he wanted to do—the accusations would have been murder accusations. If he slew her in public, there would be those who claimed it wasn't a fair contest and he should have done something else. If he let her live, then it made him look weak.

So. He couldn't quell all the rumors and the ways they would whisper and chatter about him. All he could try to do was choose what was the least damaging.

And if Pedlar insisted that she wanted the duel and entered the meadow willingly to compete against him, then Harry would at least ensure that some people saw the madness in her eyes and could say that the duel followed the old traditions.

Everyone, or what looked to be everyone, was assembled in the meadow when they arrived. Pedlar's followers stood in a clump apart from the others. Dover led another clump, mostly the people Harry thought wanted a reconciliation with the Ministry. Ron stood in front of those who hovered between the two groups, his arms folded and his eyes stern, although they went a little wide when he saw Harry.

Harry nodded to him, and ignored the way that Ron tried to mouth a question about what was going on. He turned to Pedlar. He didn't think she'd looked at the audience, other than perhaps a quick glance to make sure that the size of the dueling ring matched her delusions of grandeur. Her eyes were fixed on him, bright and yearning, and her hand had never left her wand since he caught her.

The anger rose again as Harry thought about what she had done to Draco. He grimaced at that thought, and at the next one: that this was a pretense. The magic burned in him to make Pedlar cease to exist in the next moment, if he wanted to.

But this was a pretense that Pedlar wanted, her followers would have been calling for it if she also was, and that meant things had to be done _properly_. Harry stepped back, gave her a mocking bow, and then faced the crowd and raised his voice.

"This is a duel between me and former Auror Pedlar, as she has requested more than once. She stole my lover Draco Malfoy to make me comply." There was a wind of murmurs at that, but the fire sprang up around Harry, and the murmurs faded. "So. I have granted her what she wants. The duel is to the death."

Ron made a lunging motion like a dog coming up against a chain that was too short, but when Harry glanced at him, he shook his head and said nothing. Harry nodded slightly back, and fuck the conspiracy theories that would probably spring up from that one gesture. Ron had decided not to interfere, the way he could have now that he was leader of the revolution. That deserved some acknowledgment.

"I am going to kill you."

Pedlar's voice, dreamy and soft as snowclouds could look from a distance. Harry didn't answer. He faced her, though, and saw Draco take his place with Ron's group. His muscles loosened up. In the incredible event that Pedlar fought her way through his fire and killed him, he knew Ron would take care of Draco.

"To the death," Pedlar continued, before Harry could respond. "You agree on that?"

"I already said I did." Harry drew the holly wand, held it up, and then tossed it to the side. Ron, startled, fumbled the catch, but Draco snatched the wand from the air with a Seeker's reflexes and gave him an inscrutable look.

"I do this without my wand, yes," Harry said, in response to the people staring at him. "Because I want Pedlar to have every advantage that she can." He turned and smiled slightly at her. "Merlin knows she'll need it."

She rushed at him.

Harry stepped back and drew the fire out of himself, trailing, glittering curtains that hung in the air and coiled around him when he told them to. He could feel the heat, but his skin passed through them unharmed. It always would. He was perfectly in control of his "wild" magic now. He didn't think that there had ever been anyone who blended so well with it.

_Another sign, _said the lightning stag's voice deep in his mind, _that you are not meant to stay in the world with mortals._

Harry ignored that. For now, he had to concentrate on defeating Pedlar. She might have tricks that he couldn't easily counter.

And then she used one of them, her voice soaring into a high, thrilling scream that had something of the sound of a hawk's cry. "_Avada Kedavra!_"

There was no shield to that, no counter. It soared through Harry's fire curtains and oriented on him. He had to throw himself to the ground and sideways to escape it. It was _possible _that he might be immune to that spell after his meetings with it in the past, but Harry was determined not to take the chance that would have proved it.

Pedlar let out another ringing cry and rushed at him through the curtains, probably to see if he was dead.

Then she screamed.

Her hair was on fire when she came out the other side, her nails, her eyelashes. Harry had deliberately conjured flames that would restrict themselves to the dead parts of the body, and then hurt them anyway. Pedlar beat at the flames and rolled and tried to stand, only for another of the curtains to travel through her like flicking northern lights.

This time, her hands caught on fire, and only her hands. The flames made a ringing noise, as though they danced to their own music. Harry watched her for a few moments, until he realized she wasn't going to stand again, and then rose and approached her.

"Do you give up?" he asked, close enough that she was the only one who could hear. "I'll make it less painful if you do."

Her eyes opened and focused on him, dark with hatred. She whispered a spell that he couldn't hear above the crackling, the ringing.

A rope shot out from her wand and looped about his ankle. Harry jumped and dodged up, but the magic was too quick. He crashed back to the ground with the rope already firmly in place, and reached down to burn it through.

Pedlar used the rope to drag him into the fire.

As before when he had been within it, Harry experienced nothing but a gentle shimmer along his skin, a whisper of heat, as the fire showed him what it could do if he needed it to without harming him. He looked up at Pedlar and saw that she was gaping at him, even through the flames that now were rolling towards her eyes.

"What are you?" she whispered, and then seemed to answer her own question. "Not human." She dropped her wand and started to roll away from him.

Harry waited until she was out of the flame-curtains and in view of the people gathered around the meadow, because that was the whole point of this, really, showing them that there was a reason Pedlar was dying. Then he sent one of the other flame-curtains boiling forwards, the one that was meant to burn…differently.

It caught Pedlar, passed through her, and continued on. It left her skeleton, nothing but blackened bones, caught in mid-roll, and it stayed there for just the right amount of time before the bones puffed into dust.

Harry caught eye after eye that immediately, and hastily, turned away from his. He sighed and hitched his shoulder up. "Don't do that again," he said, to anyone who might be inclined to listen to him. "This—this _stupid _thing where you try to antagonize me by hurting Draco or his parents. I took his oath that he would prevent them from doing similar things. Of course I'll make sure that no one uses that to bully him."

Then he turned and walked towards the manor. Fire rolled up from his feet, sang through his hands. When Harry turned his head fast enough, he thought he caught the actinic gleam of a stag dancing beside him.

He smiled grimly. The lightning would be surprised by the choice he had made, doubtless. It thought that Harry _was _the power and the madness that burned through him.

It had forgotten. He also had a will of his own.


	39. Deciding on a Meaning

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Thirty-Nine—Deciding on a Meaning_

"This may mean everything," Raggleworth said, using her glasses to peer at the parchment Hermione had put in front of her. "But it may also mean nothing." She leaned back in her chair and stared pensively at Hermione. "You have allowed that consideration into your planning, madam?"

"I have," Hermione said steadily. She wanted to add that Raggleworth wasn't the only one at the table whose opinion mattered, but she didn't. She had learned rapidly that being in the Wizengamot had accustomed Raggleworth to respect, and Merlin forbid that Hermione not give it to her. She turned and looked at Noble, Smithson, and Greta instead.

Greta was frowning and turning the last prophecy that Hermione had sent Harry over and over. She caught Hermione's eye and gave one of her faint smiles and careless shrugs. Hermione was not fooled. Greta had a playful demeanor. Behind that was a fine mind. She wouldn't volunteer her opinion first, since she was the youngest one here, but she would wait until everyone had spoken and then bring up things that she knew they had missed.

"It seems more straightforward than most of the prophecies I have seen," rumbled Smithson. He touched the parchment as if he thought it might explode in the flames that it talked about and burn him, although this was only a copy of a copy and nowhere near the real thing. "We might use it to coordinate our attack on the Minister with the revolution's attack. If we only knew when either was happening." He turned a heavy stare on Hermione.

Hermione nodded slightly to him. "I have the courage to contact my husband, sir. The main reason I have hesitated so far is that I did not know what the group wanted. Should we reveal our existence to him yet?" She knew Ron could be trusted, knew it with her blood and breath, but she wouldn't convince the others that easily.

"We _must _use the leverage we have," Smithson said. "And we cannot put pressure on the Minister until we have put pressure on the revolution."

"Why not?" Raggleworth had a thin screech at the edge of her voice. "This young woman is still close to the Minister. Clearwater believes she has her enslaved. Why should we not use that connection and contact the revolution when we have Clearwater moving in the right direction?"

"Because Clearwater is as stubborn as a cow," Noble said, unexpectedly. Most of the time, she tended to sit by silently in these discussions and listen to the rest. "I saw that when Hermione invited me into her mind. The lock on that door behind which her memories and knowledge hid was strong, woven of fear and hatred. But no guilt. Clearwater refused to consider, even in the most private part of her that could have influenced her magic without—as she hoped—anyone else even noticing, that she was doing something wrong. We will not easily persuade and tug on her, and if she even suspects what Hermione is doing, she will order her to desist. Hermione will have to, unless we are ready to reveal that the dominion the Imperius Curse provided is gone."

"I would still feel better trying to influence her than trying to influence _Potter_." Raggleworth sniffed. Even that had a strident edge to it, Hermione thought, as though she was one of those big, hoarse-voiced vultures that Hermione had studied a few years ago when she wanted charms to drive away scavengers. "The man is mad. And through him, he controls many slavish followers. How much do you think that we can actually influence them? One woman is easier than many minds. Everyone knows that."

Raggleworth and Smithson lapsed into an argument. Hermione sat back and looked between Noble and Greta.

Noble had her fingertips placed together and studied the arguing Raggleworth and Smithson with a patient expression. She seemed to have no doubt that matters would fall out the way they should. Hermione wished that she could have her patience.

Greta was tossing a wrapped sweet in the air and catching it again. As Hermione watched, she unwrapped it and stuck it in her mouth. She caught Hermione's eyes and grinned, showing her another one and mouthing, _Do you want it? _

Hermione shook her head fiercely. Greta sighed, as though she didn't know how people could get through their day without sweets, and stuck that one in the corner of her cheek, sucking on it. Hermione thought it would distort her voice when she spoke, but it didn't seem as if it did. "There's one thing that you're not considering," she said.

Everyone stopped talking and looked at her, probably because it was so unexpected for her to speak up before the very end. "You have news that we do not, Greta?" Raggleworth asked, words as precise and chill as frost.

"I do." Greta nodded, still sucking. "Harry Potter is no longer the leader of the revolution. That's Ron Weasley."

More silence. More stares. Then Raggleworth and Smithson both drew breaths to start speaking at once.

Hermione intervened before they could. "How do you know that?" she demanded. "The Minister's spies haven't commented on it at all, and you can't possibly have more information than she does."

Greta grinned at her. "Auntie's horribleness means that we other Umbridges tend to stick close together," she murmured. "Stick up for each other, because no one else will. Another of my cousins is with the revolution, and when she found out that I was interested in what she had to say, she began to write me letters."

Hermione swallowed down the sense of betrayal she felt. Other than the prophecy, she hadn't sent anything to Ron and Harry yet, and it made sense that they might not know how far they could trust her, if she was still under the Imperius Curse or not. "All right. Why is Ron leading the revolution? Is Harry dead?" The question seemed to lodge like an arrow in her heart as she spoke.

"No," Greta said, and there was pity in her gaze when it crossed Hermione's, like a scraping sword. Hermione gritted her teeth and held still, knowing that the best thing she could do right now, when Greta had information that she didn't, was not show how much it irritated her to be left in the dark. "But he _is _mad. There's no doubt of that now. His fire magic is consuming more and more of his life. There was a woman who tried to stand up to him, who demanded—if I can believe my cousin, who does not know everything—peace with the Ministry. Potter refused to allow that, and then she tried to betray him, to kidnap his lover—"

"Ginny?" Hermione interrupted in disbelief. As far as she knew, the rest of the Weasleys had tried to stay as far away from the revolution as possible. Molly and Arthur were torn both ways when they heard about Harry's attack on Minister Duplais, Bill had children of his own to protect, Charlie was out of the country, Percy still worked for the Ministry, and Ginny was trying to avoid letting Harry overrun her life.

"No," Greta said. "Ginny Weasley is your sister-in-law?" Hermione nodded, throat thick although it didn't sound like Ginny had changed her mind and run away to pine hopelessly after Harry. "No. This one is named Draco Malfoy."

Hermione sat there and stared. Then she shook her head. "Your cousin's information must be mistaken," she said, so much more calmly than what she really felt that she was startled and impressed with herself. "I—Harry _hated _Malfoy in school, and Malfoy hated him. They would never have started dating." That was the most neutral word she could come up with for it, though she also wondered how one would date in the middle of a revolution.

"Emotions change," Greta said. "Especially in the midst of a war. Perhaps this is no more than a fling that will fall apart when they are back to their normal places in life. Be that as it may, this woman, Pedlar, tried to force Potter to do certain things, and he left a brand on her face that would burn her to death if she tried to betray the revolution."

Hermione tried to imagine Harry doing that, and for a moment she couldn't. Her default image of Harry was still the man who had sat in her house for dinner so many nights, complaining bitterly about things in the Ministry and the wizarding world as a whole that he couldn't change.

Then she thought of him as he had been the day he burned Duplais, and swallowed.

_Yes. He could have changed. He has changed._

"But I would guess that he worded the binding spell too literally, and so the spell did not take effect," Greta said. "She took Malfoy, and Potter promised her a duel. Without a wand, with only control of magical fire, he burned her to death in seconds. It was never a fair fight."

Hermione licked her lips. She didn't want to believe that, either. The problem was that she could, and without breaking into a sweat. She closed her eyes for a moment, steadying herself against the silent memories of Harry and Ron and the letters she had received from them and sent to them. The situation had to be more complicated than Greta's cousin had reported. Hermione believed Ron would have killed Harry before he let him get as bad as that.

_You believe. Who knows how much war has changed them? Ron could obey Harry now, in a way that he never did when they were partners._

But Hermione shook her head. They had extended her the benefit of the doubt by trusting her and sending her no letters when she sent them that horrible one written under the lock of the Imperius Curse. Surely they deserved some faith from her.

"It sounds like you need to contact them," Noble said, her eyes never wavering from Hermione. "To find out how much is true."

Hermione nodded. Her ears were ringing, but she made herself stand upright and frown a little, as if this was only a temporary inconvenience to her, not something that made her ache to think about. "Yes. Of course I should. It will let us know whether an attack planned in concert with them would even _work_, for one thing."

* * *

_Do you think we should have kept a closer eye on Harry? _

Fred sounded uncertain, which was a fairly rare thing, in George's experience. He leaned back, shaking his head, and rested his hand on the machine that was starting to take shape beneath their fingers. If they were right, then the machine would be the most potent weapon they could ever wield against the Ministry.

If they weren't right…well, that would be a bit embarrassing. They were going to test this one outdoors, though, away from fragile people and instruments. And walls. And foundations. George just hoped there weren't any vulnerable fault lines around.

"He's become what the lightning and the future and the prophecy seemed to say he would become," George reminded his twin, tilting the modified glasses down over his face again. They would shield his eyes from the worst effects of flying magic and flying metal, should they get out of hand. "There's nothing alarming in that. And if you think anything other than death would stop Pedlar, then I'll have to decide my older brother was never a good judge of character after all."

_We might have been able to prevent him from going through the ordeal of killing her, _Fred insisted.

"How? You know we've never been on the right track when we tried to invent a machine that predicted the future."

_The machine that could have saved his sanity…_ Fred started, and then stopped. Even he didn't know that would have worked, which made George feel justified in ignoring instead of responding to it.

"Yes, fine," he said, and began to cast the Drilling Charm on the machine in front of him again. He wasn't yet sure that it would work out according to the image in his mind, but that was all right. It would work out. He had a good feeling about this one, about the magic that sparked in the fringes of his thoughts when he looked at it.

_What are we going to do if he's mad? _

George wouldn't have heard the voice from someone else, it was so small. Then again, no one but Fred had the right to haunt the inside of his skull, anyway. He sighed and stepped back from the Drilling Charm so that he could speak more clearly and Fred stood a greater chance of hearing _him_. "He's managed well so far. And you know that we came away from the shop to find a purpose in lives that had lost it. I think we can manage that much, even if Harry turns out to leave the revolution."

Right on cue, someone knocked on the door. George turned to answer it. Most of the time, his twin's company was the only sort he needed, but he was grateful to have another distraction this time.

Harry stepped in and nodded to them. He was carrying a slender, rolled scroll of parchment under his arm. "George, Fred," he said. "I need you to make something for me, and I need you to make it as soon as possible. Can you do that?"

George stood upright, listening hard, but Fred had decided to go silent about his opinion for now, which left George alone with his sparking, brilliant thoughts. He licked his lips and nodded. "'Course, Harry. What do you need?"

* * *

Harry leaned against the door of the lab after he'd handed the plan to George and explained as much of it as he could, and sighed. Well. He had given it over, had outlined what he wanted done, and George seemed to think that he could do it. That was all Harry could ask for, really.

A low scraping sound came from the floor next to him. Harry looked down, and discovered a faint image of the lightning stag standing there, scraping one hoof over and over across the stone floor, staring at him.

_You cannot escape._

Harry gave it the finger and turned towards his own rooms. He had made a profession out of beating the odds and escaping when he shouldn't have been able to: from the Imperius Curse, from the Killing Curse, from Voldemort, from insanity, from the Ministry after he killed Duplais. This time, he was going to escape from fate. More complicated, but not inherently harder.

The stag followed him, dancing and jumping and scratching with one hoof at the stones. Harry regarded it thoughtfully, and was grateful that he met no one on the way. If they thought he was mad for using his magic to kill someone who had threatened him, how mad would they think he was for seeing and talking to the lightning stag?

Of course, George had seen it as well, but Harry knew that George was not what most people would call a reliable witness.

"All right," he told the stag finally, when he stood with his hand on the door of his rooms and it still hadn't gone away. Most of the time, it showed itself briefly and vanished. "Was there something you wanted to talk to me about?"

The stag reared, and grew. Its antlers had come to his knee; suddenly it was more solid, and the hooves of what felt like bone rested on his shoulders, bearing down with pressure that probably could have broken his collarbone. An intense, blue-white gaze crossed his, and Harry stared back, wondering what it meant to communicate this way.

The stag bowed its head. Harry thought the antlers were going to scrape his face, and prepared to dodge. But instead, the stag simply closed its eyes, and then opened them again. This time, Harry could see a pair of roads in them, one road in each eye, stretching out through the stars to an unimaginable distance.

One road was made of lightning bolts bound closely together, as he had seen before in the vision. One was made of what looked like black stone, but when Harry peered at it more closely, he saw that it was darkness. He knew why.

"I know," he told the stag. "Do you really think that I don't see what my choices are? Even if no mystical forces were involved, I know that things can't go on as they are. I know that no one will ever trust me to be a leader and continue along the same track. Except George and Draco, maybe, but they're special." He felt his face soften as he spoke of Draco.

The stag pulled violently back from him and fell to all fours, still staring. Harry shook his head. "The road is dark," he told it. "I know why. That doesn't mean that I intend to yield myself, to either lose Draco or leave anyone else behind. You didn't want to offer me the choice of more than that. So I made my own road. There's always a third way."

The stag huffed and vanished. Harry opened the door of his room and made sure that it was shut carefully behind him before he turned around.

Then he stopped.

Draco sat on his bed, staring at him.

Harry stepped back, then realized the door was behind him and that he was armored in more flame and magic than anyone else in the revolution could call up, and shook his head. Besides, the real Draco could have crossed into his rooms easily—Harry had changed the wards so that he could—but no one else. The magic Harry had used required a flame that responded to Draco's heartbeat, and when it had started flickering madly yesterday, that had been the sign that Draco was in danger. No one else could imitate it, even if they could find the books he had used and master the magical theory. "What is it?" he asked, since he knew Draco wouldn't have come to him unless there was a problem, probably with the way that his parents were kept.

Draco swallowed a few times, then stood up and approached him. Harry waited until Draco had his hands on his shoulders and was raising his face for a kiss. Then he allowed the kiss, but also cradled Draco's face in his hands, sending soothing warmth through the scrape of his fingers.

"What is it?" he repeated. He wanted to know all about the thoughts in Draco's head as well as what his magic could tell him about Draco's body.

"You killed her."

Harry felt his muscles tense up. If Draco was going to fear him because of the way he had slaughtered Pedlar, then that might be the one act of magic he could never forgive himself for. But he shook his head and went calmer a moment later. If Draco was that afraid, he wouldn't have come here, where he could be alone with Harry.

"I did," he acknowledged. "What of it?"

"You killed her _for me_," Draco said, and then he was all over Harry, his lips and teeth and heartbeat as hot as fire, and Harry realized he might have mistaken the nature of the emotions that made Draco seek him out.

Harry stumbled towards the bed and fell on it. Draco rode him down, hands and mouth roving everywhere. For the first time Harry could remember, he didn't seem to be shy. He was initiating the kiss, he was seizing Harry's cock, he was thrusting his tongue into Harry's mouth with a dozen hungry motions.

Harry knew what other people would say about this. That Draco was reacting to strong emotions, not the best ones, and that Harry should probably back off and leave him alone. That it wasn't healthy, wasn't normal.

Then again, Harry also knew that _he _wasn't healthy and normal, and so he might as well have a relationship that shared his same qualities. The heartbeat magic and the instinctive knowledge he had of Draco's body through the fire would tell him if he was coming too close to hurting Draco.

It didn't really take long after that. A single, controlled burst of flame, and Draco's clothes fell away around them, burned scraps of cloth that Harry no longer had to pay any attention to. He could smooth one hand up and down Draco's leg, and see the way that the muscles flexed under his touch, and the scars on Draco's chest and one on his shoulder that he couldn't account for, and kiss them in apology.

Draco shook his head when he did that, though perhaps only because he didn't want Harry thinking too much about the past, and then leaned back on his heels and breathed a bit. "You have lube?" he asked, his voice cracking on the last word.

Harry nodded and groped for a moment in the desk next to his bed. What came out was a thick kind of oil that someone had brought to the revolution when the next great idea was that they would all have massages so that they could learn to relax and trust each other. That idea hadn't lasted long around Ron, of course, but at least one tube of the oil had wound up with Harry, and he held it out to Draco now.

Draco tossed it back to him, and that was when Harry noticed that his hands were shaking too much to open it. He gave Draco a questioning frown as he began to smooth the oil up and down his cock. If Draco was terrified by the thought of having sex with him, then Harry didn't want to have it.

"It's not that," Draco said, seeming to catch and understand his glance. "I just can't _wait_." He closed his eyes and turned his head away a moment later, his blush bright enough to consume him alive, like kindling.

Harry thought of the last seven years, time that Draco had spent alone trying to get his parents out of prison. That kind of life allowed no time or room for lovers. It wasn't surprising that this was as new to him as it was to Harry.

He was gentle as he slicked his cock, and as he slicked Draco's entrance, and when his fingers went into Draco's body, there was a moment when he thought he would have to take them back out again. Draco's breath caught in sharp pain. He bent forwards and stared at nothing with a blank gaze, his body heaving so much that Harry's flame shouted a warning in his head. He was starting to get stressed—

The next moment, Draco opened his eyes and stared down, and his face was fiery with triumph and determination.

"If you think that you can scare me away by _touching _me," he muttered, voice low and thick, "then you have another reason to think again."

And he drove himself down onto Harry's cock before Harry could wait or object anymore. His mouth opened in what looked like pain and ecstasy, and the flame coiled and danced around his body as Harry began to succumb.

But the flame wouldn't burn his own skin, and Draco was now close enough to Harry that it didn't burn him, either. Harry reached up and rested shaking hands on Draco's hips, staring at him.

Draco snarled at him, making a sound of enough joy and pain that Harry wasn't sure which one was meant to be predominant. "You think that I didn't choose this?" he murmured. "That you could somehow convince me to continue with it if it weren't my choice, if it was hurting me?"

"No," Harry whispered. At the moment, he felt vaguely foolish when he thought how much he had worried about Draco, and had to hold himself back from saying some of the stupider thoughts that bubbled up from his stomach.

"Good," Draco breathed, and then he closed his eyes and began to ride Harry.

The pleasure was astonishing, although Harry couldn't keep track of it from one moment to another; the moments blurred and stretched, instead, and he simply stared and tried to let his mind absorb as much as possible. Draco, swaying and grunting above him, his neck arching back when he felt the same kind of pleasure, or at least something that affected him as much as the thrusting itself affected Harry. Draco snapping his eyes open as though to make sure that Harry was still beneath him, and smiling lazily when he saw that he was. Draco adjusting his position and sinking back down with a sigh when he was satisfied.

Draco, Draco, Draco, and Harry felt almost tricked out of his orgasm, so that it was pulled from him whether he was enjoying it or not.

Draco collapsed on his chest at the same time, and Harry would have worried, except that the flame told him Draco had come, and enjoyed himself while doing so. He reached up and stroked Draco's sweat-soaked back, wondering what he should say.

Nothing, as it turned out. They lay there in silence.


	40. The Speed of a Stone

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Forty—The Speed of a Stone_

Hermione sat down and blinked at the sheet of parchment in front of her. Noble had assured her that she would be left alone to write it, that she didn't need to fear interruptions from the other allies. It would be sent from Noble's office with an owl that the Minister would never know existed, and so no one would intercept her message before it got to Ron and Harry. She didn't have to worry about that, not anymore. She knew the truth about Harry's leadership, too, and how things had changed in the revolution. She understood that one of her best friends might be going mad, and that her husband might not stand a chance of stopping it.

She knew all that, and she knew the obstacles that existed that she had to tell them about, too. About the Minister and the way that she had imprisoned Hermione, about the alliance that stood behind her now, about the way they should coordinate their efforts…

She knew all that, and still it was hard to write.

In the end, she swallowed and forced hand and quill to move across the paper. They might not be the right words, but they were the only ones she had.

* * *

_Dear Ron and Harry,_

_ I hope you've figured out from the prophecy I sent that I'm not under the Imperius Curse anymore, but I can't be sure of that. What you need to know is that I still have Minister Clearwater's trust, and she still has me in charge of the anti-revolutionary propaganda that the Ministry is publishing. I can do something to jolt her and throw her off-track, but that's only going to work once._

_ I have allies with me: a Wizengamot member, a Mind-Healer who broke the Curse on me and can testify that it was there in the first place, two people who work close to the Minister. I don't want to tell you their names just in case this is intercepted, but please believe that they exist and they can support me._

_ What is the revolution doing? Has everyone accepted Ron's leadership? What do they think of you, Harry? I hope that they're still amenable to fighting the Ministry, or will you try to negotiate?_

_ All of this is important information for my allies, especially since they aren't sure yet whether the best thing is to help the revolution or not. Please answer as soon as you can, and with as much detail as you can._

_ Ron, I've put in another letter for you, one that I only want you to look at when you're in private. Sorry, Harry._

_ All my love, and loyalty, _

_ Hermione._

* * *

Harry grinned at Ron as Ron finished reading the last lines of the letter. "That's _wonderful _news, mate. I never should have doubted her. Of course she was going to find some way to fight free of the Curse and show everyone exactly what she's made of."

Ron gave him a smile. He was flushed, though, and distracted, touching the second letter that Hermione had enclosed in the first one and turning little longing glances on it. Once he looked at Harry and opened his mouth, then closed it again and cleared his throat with what he probably imagined was a manly sound.

Harry snorted and waved one hand at him. "I don't know why you're asking my permission, anyway, when you're the leader of the revolution now and can just send me away if you want to." Ron just looked more distressed at that, though, so Harry softened and smiled at him. "Go read it if you want to."

Ron practically ran into the bathroom attached to his bedroom. Harry leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, his heart beating fast.

Hermione was free, and she had the power to influence the Minister at least once. But, like she said, the minute she used the power, or at least the minute the consequences of the move fell out, Clearwater would figure out what had happened and use that to turn against her. So it had to be something that Hermione and her allies could do quickly, or with such force that it wouldn't matter if Clearwater figured out what had happened later, because Hermione would be away and free, and Clearwater utterly defeated.

Harry licked his lips. He still wasn't sure if George could build the machine that Harry had asked him to build, and he still wasn't sure if he could master the magical theories that his books had hinted at. Not that quickly, anyway, not quickly enough to bring about the Minister's defeat as fast as it probably had to happen.

_We need plans. Ron and I. Or I do. We need to make plans for what's going to happen on the surface, and I have to make my own, to fulfill the prophecy and content the lightning stag and still satisfy myself and stay here with Draco. And—anyone else who still wants to be close to me._

Harry opened his eyes, closed them again, and then opened them once more. The first seeds of such a plan began to blossom in his head.

* * *

_Private entry from the diary of Minister Gillian Clearwater: _

_ The revolution has changed, to hear the rumors that circulate through the air around me. Harry Potter has fallen, betrayed and exposed as mad, and Ron Weasley leads them now. On the one hand, this is a good thing. Fewer people will join them now, and Weasley does not have Potter's frightening magic._

_ But on the other hand, Weasley may be sane, and there were always rumors that he and Granger did more of the actual work in the war than Potter did. Potter was the hero, who walked into the Forest and did—what he had to do. But Weasley was the strategist, and Granger was the one who came up with the clever spells and innovations that his fans would have preferred to attribute to Potter._

_ I do not know if this will be a good change for us._

_ But I do know that we must take advantage of it. I have identified the writing on some of the letters I have been receiving. I should have seen it before. I will contact her, and demand that she appear before me and explain what she means by the prophecies that she has been plaguing me with._

* * *

_What do you think this machine is meant to do, anyway? _

George shook his head, and ran his hand over the gleaming curves that had begun to rise from the plan they had sketched out, based on the picture that Harry had given them. As it turned out, they couldn't use the whole of the original sketch, but Fred had suggested some alterations that George was sure Harry would approve. He didn't understand all the things about stress and tension and what kind of weight metal would bear that Fred and George did. They would ask before they tested the device, of course. Since they didn't know what it was meant to do, doing otherwise was madness.

And they were not mad, not truly. Or else it was the madness that Harry shared, the madness where one was so comfortable with one's own mind and magic that they did not care what others said of them.

_I think we could figure it out, _Fred persisted. _If we stepped back and took a good look at it, instead of just pretending that we knew and then acting surprised later. _

George sighed, but stepped back and relaxed the busy activity of his thoughts as much as possible. His twin always said that it was harder to use his eyes when George persisted in _thinking _too much. Followed by other choice remarks that George had seen no need to commit to memory.

_You're still thinking too hard. _

George hummed tunelessly under his breath and stared at the machine with his eyes unfocused and his mind trying to see nothing but it. He didn't know how much it helped. Fred made little noises behind his eyes as if it did, but Fred would do the same thing if he had no idea what the machine did, because God forbid that he confess his lack of knowledge and let them try to figure it out together.

_I heard that. You're still thinking too hard. _

This time, George didn't even look at the machine, although he made sure that his eyes stayed open except for occasional blinks; he tried to focus on the blandest pictures his mind could imagine, grey landscapes and pools of still, lapping water and wheeling birds with light striking their feathers.

_Better._

George didn't roll his eyes, but that was really because he was good at controlling himself, not because Fred had got more sensible.

When he finally looked back at the machine for himself, as Fred's presence retreated to the back of his mind, he had to admit that he didn't know what Harry intended to use it for, either. They were building three great loops of silver and platinum, which sprang as delicately as rib cages from the main part of the machine, a great, flat platform. The platform could be of iron, Harry had said dismissively; George definitely got the impression that the loops were the important parts, not the platform. The loops themselves curved out in elliptical shapes, as if tracing the orbits of the planets.

There were no places for braziers to smoke, as in their last invention, so George didn't think it was meant to contact the lightning. But he had no idea what Harry intended to do with it, only that it was dangerous.

_I don't like this, little brother. _

"Do you think _I _do?" George grumbled, and went back to working. They were loyal enough to Harry to create it, and ask what it did later. He had done too much for them—including the way he treated Fred—for it to be otherwise.

* * *

_Leading article in the _Daily Prophet _on the day after Hermione Granger's letter: _

_**REVOLUTION COMING TO AN END?**_

_ Our loyal readers may finally be able to breathe a sigh of relief and cease living in a war-torn world like the one we've inhabited for the past two months. A delegation from Potter's ragged band came to the Ministry yesterday, led by the experienced negotiator Veronica Dover, and suing for peace._

_ "We're tired of living in fear," said Dover, who has a resonant speaking voice and a great sense of presence, more even than Potter did when he was working as an Auror for the Ministry. "We want to negotiate terms of surrender and mercy. Of course we expect the Ministry to be generous, but we are prepared to be generous as well. We have people among us who we agree should go to prison. And we want to be sure that we will have our lives. But we may not have even those if we continue to rebel. We accept that."_

_ Minister Clearwater met with the rebels in the Atrium of the Ministry. A few of the rebels showed reluctance to enter the building, and were asked to wait outside. Your writer marked that Dover showed no fear, as if she had been here many times before._

_ After several hours of negotiations, Dover and Clearwater came to a provision that appeared to please everyone, at least if the smiles seen on the faces of those exiting the Atrium were real._

_ "It's not often that a revolution can end with as little bloodshed as this one has produced," Minister Clearwater said in an interview after the negotiation. "Other than Minister Duplais, the first and most prominent victim of the tragedy, whom we can never forget, very few have died."_

_ Asked whether those few would include former Auror Harry Potter, the Minister paused and was silent for several minutes. Then she shook her head sadly._

_ "I do not think an execution in order," she said. "But we certainly cannot allow him to roam as freely as he did in the past."_

_The positions under discussion seem to involve placing Potter in the prison that will replace Azkaban and ensuring that he has guards who cannot be bribed. Minister Clearwater acknowledged that this might mean a return of the Dementors, who have not been used in such situations since the war._

_ "We would be reluctant to do such a thing," she said. "But it is the only one that can prevent Potter either from causing trouble for us—trouble that he might not even mean to cause—or being used as a rallying point for those who will."_

* * *

The mood in the corridors of the manor was different.

Draco had known it would be, when the diplomatic delegation left and it seemed like they might have a chance of convincing the Minister that they were sincere about going home now, but he hadn't expected the number of smug and satisfied glances in his general direction. No one seemed interested in attacking him now. Instead, they murmured behind his back and fell silent when he entered a room.

It took him another day to understand. They assumed that, if Dover really did convince the Minister to make them an offer of peace—and that was by no means certain, since Dover and her merry band hadn't returned yet—Harry would surrender, and Draco and his parents would have no choice but to go with him. All Draco's efforts to free and protect his parents would be for naught, and there was a certain kind of person in the revolution who looked forward to seeing that happen.

That particular fact came to Draco in the middle of a meal. When it did, he dropped his spoon in his cornflakes and laughed for a full minute, to the increasingly hard and scandalized stares of most of the other people in the eating hall. In the end, Draco had to stand and leave. He felt hungry later, but it was worth it.

_They don't understand. Even now._

Draco leaned against the wall of his room and closed his eyes, shaking his head. No, it was hopeless. They watched Potter murder the woman who had kidnapped Draco and warn anyone off doing it again, and still they thought Potter would have no choice but to roll over and accept their decisions.

They thought they had some power over Potter, they thought they could control him, while also believing him dangerous, wild, uncontrollable, and wanting Weasley to take over so that they could have someone sane in charge.

_Potter will never go along with them._

Draco ran one hand down his own flank. He could feel the purple bruises he was looking for, the hand-shaped ones where Harry had gripped him as they fucked.

He was possessor and possessed, now, and finally comfortable with the fact. Perhaps it was not true love in the way that Weasley would undoubtedly hold out for, but Draco knew that Harry would die to protect him, and his parents.

_Whatever is going to happen, it won't be the tame surrender that I suspect many of the people around us would prefer._

* * *

_From the private diary of Minister Gillian Clearwater: _

_ As suspected, the letter-writer sending me vague warnings of the prophecies was Auror Andrea Desang. She vanished from the Ministry because she felt she was no longer trusted—and she was not, after her apparent appearance in the caves that had housed the Inferi—but she has sworn to me that she had no part in that, and I believe her._

_ She stole the artifacts and vanished to continue to have an active part in fighting the revolution. I accept her arguments as far as they go, though the thefts from the Unspeakables cross the line of behavior that I am willing to allow in my Aurors. There will be a different set-up if she survives this and returns._

_ And this leaves me with a dilemma. Desang demands revenge on the person she suspects impersonated her, my newest young ally. Since I have reasons to be assured of that ally's unbreakable loyalty now, I had planned to forgive what she did before she came to work with me. But Desang was wise enough not to bring the artifacts she had stolen to our meeting, and will only return them conditional on her being able to punish my ally._

_ I must consider this, as well as the plan that Desang recommends to take Potter. He may be surrendered by those who have come from the revolution to negotiate a peace settlement, but I doubt it. Can mice draw a dragon in captive?_

_ I must think._

* * *

Harry stepped out into the starry night and shut the manor door behind him.

He had known it would make the guards nervous to see him leaving the manor when it was dark, so he had made sure that they hadn't seen. Filaments of thin flame bound about his body turned the light and made everyone see no more than a heat shimmer, or nothing at all. Harry had discovered that few people, even those who didn't have to wear glasses, had night vision as good as they had claimed.

He wandered across the vast expanse of burned grass where he had called and tamed the dragons. The earth still contained heat, if one reached for it. Harry held out his palm, flat and parallel to the ground, and watched the distant waves of dangerous magic struggle towards him.

He could do almost anything now, go almost anywhere. He had awakened the other night floating above the bed on flat bends of flame that looked like a flying carpet. He could do almost anything he wanted.

_Except lead the revolution, and guarantee that Draco and his parents will be safe after that. _

With a grumbling sigh, Harry folded his legs beneath him and stared up at the stars. They formed constellations above him that he couldn't remember learning from Astronomy. Of course, in this state, Hogwarts seemed so long ago and far away that it was hard to remember things he had learned in Transfiguration or Care of Magical Creatures, both of which had been more interesting to him than Astronomy.

So he drew his own, new constellations by snapping his fingers and linking the stars with lines of fire. There was the one he could call Hermione, for her curly hair. And a dragon, of course, soaring with wings spread across distant space. And the Lovers, two faces close, lips pouting out for a kiss.

Him and Draco.

_Of course._

Harry glanced down and found that he was shimmering slightly with fire. He smiled and lay back, floating just above the grass, or the earth where the grass had been, so that he wouldn't burn it again. He felt the ghost of the warmth there reach up, searching for companionship. It touched him and then leaped back. Harry laughed softly and stretched out an arm so that his fingers could stroke the air.

He could do anything. He could go anywhere.

Except the things that he had no head for, like leadership.

Harry closed his eyes. He knew how it would be, as though he could also read the details of the future, rather than just a dark road or a lightning road, in the stag's eyes. The Ministry would make some plea for reconciliation. The revolution would go to them in a big, staged meeting. Harry would have to be there because otherwise the surrender wouldn't mean much, and the revolution could continue in many people's minds.

And the Minister would strike.

Of course she would. Harry never thought for an instant that she meant to accept them. They had injured her pride and made her look like an incompetent for the first few months of her rule in front of the wizarding world. There was no other way for her to handle them. If she didn't put them down strongly, anyone would think they could get away with a revolution as long as they had sufficient inspiration. And she wasn't about to tolerate that.

Harry would be with them. But not of them.

He held out his hand and watched fire soar up from the palm to touch the lines he had drawn between the stars. The tongues flickered, and the fire came streaming back into him, hitting hard enough to make him grunt. Harry shook his head and sighed. He didn't know, not anymore, whether he would ever have stood a chance of succeeding with the original purpose of the revolution, to make the Ministry do something about the large numbers of innocent Muggleborns they were failing.

But he did resent that he had never had the chance to find out, because of the magic that had once again chosen him for something great and grand and ill-defined. In this case, leaving the world. He reckoned it could sound romantic to someone else, but he didn't have much idea of what it meant when it applied to him.

He sat outside a while longer, watching the stars, and eventually his thoughts turned to the machine that he had asked George to build. Three loops. One for the illusion, of course. When he had first come up with this plan, he had known the illusion would be necessary, and he had refined the idea but not changed it when he began making the first sketches for the machine.

One loop for the surrender. There was no other way to phrase it, and after some grimacing and grumbling to himself, Harry had stopped trying.

One loop for…

Harry swallowed. One loop for the transport, for the protection. It was the part that he most needed to work, since it would be for the protection of Draco and his parents, and it was the part Harry was most uncertain about. How _could _he guarantee that they would be safe when he was changing the situation with unknown, untested magic?

The fire sang abruptly around him, rising up in shimmering flames that cloaked his sight and made him smile despite himself. His magic was trying to reassure him that it would do whatever he needed it to do, down to the most complex parts of magical theory.

_For as long as I'm here, at least._

* * *

_Dear Hermione,_

_ I'm returning the favor and telling you what we mean to do, me and Ron, now that we've discussed it. And I'm also doing something else similar to you and sending back an enclosed letter from Ron that, I promise, he wrote. I haven't looked at it or read it. It's private, just between the two of you._

_ It's great that you have allies, and I think we can reassure you that, yes, we actually did send that delegation of people to negotiate with the Minister. Any plan we come up with will have to take place at the moment when the revolution meets with her to "surrender," I think. There'll never be a better time._

_ I gave the leadership over to Ron—and he accepted it—because I wasn't doing a good job and no one trusted me. I did kill Pedlar because she had attacked Draco, and for no other reason. Otherwise, I would have been content to stay away from her if she had stayed away from me._

_ I don't feel mad. But of course, that means nothing, since no one else is inside my head with me. What I will say is that I've come up with a solution to this problem, and one that I don't believe will hurt anyone else. It offers choices to a few people. You and Ron will know the truth, in the end, although I'll have to hide for a while. _

_ I will say this, though. I've never been fond of surrendering. If it has to happen, then it's bloody well going to be on _my _terms._

_ Love,_

_ Harry._


	41. Blazing in the Night

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Forty-One—Blazing In the Night_

"That is hardly reassuring."

Hermione grimaced and nodded. She had shared the letter Harry had sent her with the others, of course. Ron's letter was for her and her alone, but if Harry hadn't wanted her allies to know what he wrote, then he would have put some indication of that in the letter itself.

"I do wonder if he has gone mad in a gentle way," said Greta, sucking on a sweet that Hermione thought was a lemon sherbet and staring broodingly at the letter, which lay in the center of the table. "You hear about that, in old stories. People who are mad but just wander about and pat dogs on the head, until they die heroically saving the day."

Hermione saw the glances exchanged between Smithson and Raggleworth, and knew that they would say something more cutting than she would to Greta, so she hurried to speak first. "I doubt that that's it. After all, he did kill Pedlar. Those doesn't sound like the tactics of someone who's gone mad in a gentle way."

Greta turned earnestly towards her. "No, but he might leave us alone, as long as we don't try to take this Malfoy of his away."

That caused the others to start arguing again, and Hermione leaned against the back of her chair and closed her eyes, letting their words wash over her. She had something that she was more worried about, something that wouldn't _stop _worrying her no matter how many times she told herself it was a silly, insignificant concern next to the potential threat of Harry's madness and Minister Clearwater finding out about their plans.

She didn't know what Harry would do to save Malfoy. He had burned a woman to death. What would he do if they won the war, or at least stopped the Minister from taking advantage of a surrendering revolution, and then they had to put Malfoy's parents away again because there was nothing else to do with them?

She didn't know if Harry would let them do it, which was a testimony to how far gone he was, and how little she knew him anymore.

She sighed. She wasn't there, part of the revolution itself, and she had chosen that from the beginning. She would have to rely on Ron's perceptions instead, and trust that he would let them know if Harry became so erratic that they had no choice but to put Malfoy away. She still loved Ron, she still trusted his common sense, and she knew that he wouldn't let concern for Malfoy overpower him.

Even if some of the things he had hinted at in his letter made her think that he was contemplating a _friendship _with Malfoy, something she wouldn't ever have thought was possible.

Truly, they had all changed.

* * *

"We wanted to ask you what this machine is for, mate."

Harry looked up from where he'd been leaning against the wall, studying their work so far. George thought they'd done well with building the three big loops, but that didn't mean they were exactly what Harry wanted.

Harry gave him a small smile in return, and said, "Resisting fate. Escaping from the bloody future that the prophecy wants me to embrace." His eyes snapped, and the magic that slept within him, stirring, rose up and became visible as small streamers of transparent flame cascading around his shoulders. George didn't think he knew he was doing it, and luckily, they hadn't left anything that was flammable near him. "Making decisions about my own life. Everything that I've wanted to do since I battled Voldemort and which so many people denied me the chance to do."

George raised his eyebrows. Fred was murmuring confusion in the back of his mind, and George had to admit that he was mightily confused himself. "Er, mate," he said. "I don't see how that's true. After all, you wanted to be an Auror, and you are one. Were one, until you burned the Minister to death. And you wanted to start a revolution, and you did. You wanted to become Malfoy's lover, and you did. You wanted to kill Pedlar for what she did to Malfoy, and she's dead. You defeated the Dark Lord and saved the world. What have you been denied that you've wanted?"

"The lover of my choice," Harry said, speaking softly, dreamily. The flames flickered around him and dashed down to the floor in front of him, burning there, soft and bright and as real as Fred, forming a fire for Harry to stare into. "There are too many people who think I shouldn't have him. They want me to be an ideal leader. The prophecy and the lightning stag and the future and whatever else exists in that group or you want to call it insist that I leave the world. The Ministry wanted me to be the perfect Auror and ignore the injustices visited on Muggleborns. All those people haven't wanted or have grown disgusted with the person I actually am."

"Yes, but, well, fate is the only one in a position to do something about it," George pointed out. "You have Malfoy, and you could probably be an Auror again, and I thought you didn't want to be a leader anyway."

Harry abruptly blinked and focused on him again, bright as the fire, more real than it was. "Sorry, you're right. I'm wording this badly. But this scar marked me out for a certain path. I fulfilled that one, because Voldemort wouldn't have given me any peace if I didn't, and I couldn't stand to see people die. But I'm going to bloody well _make _the prophecy and the future leave me in peace, and I'm going to make sure that no one dies as I'm doing it. Or dies afterwards, the way they'd like to put Draco and his parents to death. You'll see."

"I think we will," George breathed. The fire was no brighter or less transparent, but the sense of magic was heavier, pressing down on his shoulders. In the back of his head, Fred shivered and muttered. George tried to lift his head and exhale carefully. "And you—you'll be doing something that frees you from every attempt fate could make to take you back?"

"Yes," Harry said. His voice had dropped back down again. "If the machine works. If the magic works. If the prophecy doesn't do something I don't anticipate that could end up taking me down." He paused and gave a half-smile that George thought looked like the kind of expression shared by the dead. "It seems strange to talk about the prophecy as if it was a separate being with its own kind of will, instead of just words, but this one does seem to be that kind."

George wasn't sure, but on the other hand, he and Fred had both seen the lightning stag and felt the powerful forces dancing up and down when Harry summoned the dragons. He doubted that anyone other than Harry knew more about it. He contented himself with nodding. "What's going to happen to Malfoy and his parents?"

"They'll be safe."

_Less than reassuring. _But then again, Harry hadn't given them a straight answer about the machine, either. George was growing resigned to that. He didn't think Harry would deliberately to do something to hurt someone who didn't try to hurt him or those under his protection, and as for the thought that he might hurt someone accidentally, well, the idiots who had decided to challenge Harry were just as likely to get themselves killed negotiating with the Minister. "Fine," he said. "Then could you clear out and let us work on this?"

Harry moved off without protest, vanishing out the door with a silence that disturbed Fred, although George could see the sense in it. Harry seemed less and less connected to the world every day, less inclined to communicate, wrapped in that kind of aloofness that made him a dangerous opponent.

_I don't really know how he's going to keep from being consumed by the prophecy._

* * *

"Have you made up your mind yet?"

Draco made sure to speak mildly, and to keep the door behind him firmly locked with a warding spell, so that his parents stood no chance of breaking free even if they did get past him. His mother lowered her head, and Draco shook his. If she reacted like that merely to someone looking at her, then he wondered she had the strength to defend her choices at all.

On the other hand, perhaps it wasn't strength. She seemed to have weak arguments at best for her choice of Lucius over Draco. Perhaps Azkaban had worn her down so much that she was incapable of changing her mind, and simply followed Lucius because it was what she had done for the last few years that she was in the prison.

He was tired of wondering, though. He didn't think his mother would change unless his father changed and made her. He turned back to face Lucius and waited until his father's cold eyes met his own.

Cold, but with so little passion behind them. That was the most surprising change, the one that Draco almost wished had been reversed. Lucius's face had shone with desperation, not rage, when he was fighting to make Draco let them out. He had wanted to break free, but he had no clear plan to get a wand or flee the manor or avoid the dangers inherent in being an escaped Azkaban prisoner.

One way or another, Draco had to accept, whether he had changed in prison or never existed in the first place, the cherished and revered father he had known, the clever man who would never let himself be broken by his enemies or seized without a plan, was dead.

"You have no right to speak that way to me," Lucius murmured, but his voice fumbled and dripped in slow drops, and Draco knew that he wasn't putting strength behind the words because he couldn't. "You don't know—you have no right—"

"Of course I do," Draco said calmly. "I'm the one who holds you captive here, the one who swore the oath as to your good behavior, and the one who'll answer for it if you leave." He saw his father's head lift at that, and snorted. "I promise, you won't survive to enjoy the way they would break me."

"Don't talk of breaking," Narcissa said, her voice so breathless that Draco doubted he would have heard her if someone had been talking in the next room. "Please."

Though never foolish enough to remove his gaze entirely from his father—they could have planned this together, after all—Draco did turn to her and try to make his voice softer. "Why not, Mother? What happened to you in that foul place, that you hate the word?"

Narcissa simply lowered her head again and didn't answer. Draco sighed. That was the worst of this. He knew that he could reach his mother if they could speak more, but she retreated into silence and he had no recourse unless he wished to coerce her. And he didn't.

"We could make it," Lucius said. "You think that we would not survive this—this _mob _outside our doors. But a Malfoy is more than a match for any mob. Unless he is a Malfoy who has betrayed the family's legacy, of course."

His eyes were so heavy with contempt, and his expression was so distant from reality, that Draco didn't feel it worth his while to argue with him. He simply shook his head and stood up. "Believe that if you like, but I'm the only one who stands a chance of giving you back what you've lost. And so far, you've chosen to cling to your present misery instead of the promise of the future."

Lucius watched him with slow, dull hatred. Narcissa stared between them, her lips white and trembling with apprehension.

Just like yesterday. And just like tomorrow, most likely.

Draco bowed to both of them, and then stood and departed again. He thought he was wearing them down, but into what, he was not quite certain. Into hatred of him, into contempt, into acceptance? His mother might get that far. But he was beginning to accept that Lucius never would.

He sighed as he paced towards the bathroom. He felt like taking a shower to wash off the complicated legacy his parents always left him with, pity and boredom and irritation and relief at being out of their presence.

"Malfoy."

Draco froze and stood a moment staring at the far wall. He recognized the voice behind him, but he didn't know what it meant that its owner was seeking him out now. He turned around and nodded warily at Weasley, the one, the only, the original, Harry's best friend and the new leader of the revolution.

"Weasley." In case anyone was listening, he kept his voice absolutely neutral. Both friendliness and sniping could result in an attack.

Weasley considered him with narrowed eyes for a moment. Then he raised his wand and waved it up and down once. A sharp pop invaded Draco's ears, and he felt as though a noise he had barely noticed, below the level of his hearing, had stopped. He stared at Weasley, who shrugged.

"One of the privacy charms that they only teach Aurors." Weasley surged towards him, then visibly stopped himself. "I want to know whether Harry's told you anything of what he plans to do when the delegation goes to surrender to the Minister."

"Shouldn't that be when _you_ go to surrender to the Minister?" Draco asked, because he had to. "I was under the impression that they acted with your approval."

Weasley grimaced as though he'd bitten into a sour apple. "Technically, they do," he admitted. "But I thought Minister Clearwater would refuse their demands and hold herself apart from them long enough to give me time to consider. She hasn't, which means that I need to come up with a plan soon. And Harry won't tell me what his is, so I thought I would ask whether he's hinted anything about it to you."

"Have you actually asked him?" Draco was no expert on how Gryffindor relationships in general worked, much less friendships that had endured for years, but he was beginning to be one on the way that people reacted to Harry. "Or did you assume he wouldn't tell you and watch him for hints that you haven't seen instead?"

Weasley flushed this time. Then he sighed and leaned back against the wall, folding his arms in front of him. "I'm worried," he admitted. "He doesn't tell anyone what he's thinking or feeling anymore, except maybe you. He seems devoted to you and your parents, and to my brother and me to a lesser extent. I know that he still cares about some people outside the revolution, too. But I can't tell if he cares about anyone else inside it anymore. He might let them die just to spite them."

Draco rolled his eyes. "I haven't known him as long as you, but it seems I know him better," he said. "He wouldn't do that."

"How can you be sure?" Weasley stared at him with eyes that had a sour light in them. "You—I don't mean to accuse, Malfoy, but your perspective is biased. He killed someone for you. That means that you're going to be predisposed to liking him."

Draco shook his head. "It's not that. Or not that alone. He gave Pedlar plenty of warnings, and he even gave her what she claimed she wanted, a public duel where she could use her strength against him. If that doesn't satisfy the people who watched her die, that's only because nothing will ever satisfy them."

"But he's changed," Weasley said. "He's changed so much that I don't recognize him anymore."

_How did I come to this point? _Draco silently asked the universe. _The point where I'm Harry Potter's lover, and reassuring Harry Potter's friend, while behind me are my parents, who I can barely speak to civilly anymore and no longer share ideals with?_

The universe wouldn't answer him, of course. If it hadn't done so when his parents went to prison, then he couldn't count on it now. Draco did his best to speak calmly and rationally, when he thought that Weasley had stopped staring at nothingness and might listen to Draco instead of his own worries. "He's changed, yes. The old Potter would never be in love with me. On the other hand, he didn't have this kind of magic, either, and he wasn't despised by the people he led." Then he paused. "Or not directly," Draco added slowly, thinking about Hogwarts. People had changed their attitudes towards Potter there whenever some new crisis came along, hailing him as hero or villain depending on their moods and whatever "evidence" the _Prophet _chose to report that day. Draco should know, when he'd manipulated that attitude himself during fourth year.

"He's changed, yes," he went on, when he noticed Weasley's fingers tapping impatiently against his wand. "But that doesn't mean he's abandoned everything that used to be important to him. As you noted, he still cares for you and the people he's sworn to protect. No, he hasn't told me what he intends. I still think that you could ask him and get a straight answer."

Weasley chewed his lip, then sighed. "It's something to consider at any rate," he muttered, and pushed himself away from the wall with a little nod. "Thanks, Malfoy. You helped more than I reckoned you could."

He walked away down the corridor, leaving Draco to watch his back and wait for someone to spring out on him and accuse him of corrupting the revolution's new leader.

No one did, though, so ultimately Draco was alone with his thoughts.

_He wanted—_

_ What did he want?_

Maybe only the reassurance that Draco sometimes wished someone had handed _him_ during all those years when he labored under the mistaken impression that he had to find a way to get his parents out of Azkaban and then everything would be all right again. Potter had made Draco realize that life went on after that. Draco had made Weasley realize that it might be better to _talk _to his friend instead of assuming the worst.

As far as the revelations went, Draco thought, turning away slowly, they weren't of comparable strength. But maybe they could feel that way to Weasley.

* * *

This time, the lightning stag came to him in his dreams.

It was an odd dream. Harry could still feel the sheets beneath him, the pillow under his head, his arm where it curved around Draco, and the drying wetness here and there on both their bodies that came from a good bout of fucking. A flickering flame danced in front of him, the way it always did when he closed his eyes, representing Draco's heartbeat. Harry wasn't sure that he could have got rid of it if he tried at this point. The magic was always with him.

And growing stronger, though Harry thought he might have been the only one who noticed that.

The stag stood in _front _of all of those sensations, somehow, pushing them determinedly to the back of Harry's mind. It scraped one hoof up and down in a slow, senseless motion and stared at him. Again it carried roads in its eyes, but this time they were fainter than before. Harry stared for long moments before he understood.

And began to smile.

"You don't _know _any more, do you?" he asked, softly, but caustically enough that the stag danced back from him. "You aren't _sure _that the future you wanted for me will happen. You have to question, and doubt, and think about it in new ways."

The stag's head slewed around, sharp, restless, and it looked at something over its shoulder. Harry lifted his head and saw the lightning road shining there already, a real thing, and beautiful beyond imagining.

The magic in him strained towards it, even the faint flame he used to read Draco's state of being. It was ready. He could join that road now if he wanted, without waiting for the grand, catastrophic explosion that it seemed the prophecy had predicted.

The stag looked at Harry with eyes so huge and hopeful that Harry snorted. He was making a representation of the future _feel bad. _It probably hoped that would be enough to get him to surrender.

But the realization that he could go now had told Harry something else, instead. He lay back in the bed and started to laugh. The stag promptly stopped the scraping and focused on him, ears and nose intent. The eyes had closed, as though it wanted to block the sight of the roads he could take from Harry.

"You're _frightened_," Harry managed to say, when he could stop gasping. "And you just told me the truth, that the prophecy can be bent, that the important thing isn't the timing of what happens as much as what I do. That was fatal information to give me if you really wanted me to respect the bounds of the prophecy and believe exactly as you do." He gave the stag a lazy smile, lying back and reaching for Draco. The sensation of the warm shoulder blade under his hand, and the naked back, grew brighter, more present, than the sight of the stag. "It means that my plan should work."

The stag tossed its head again, then closed one eye and opened the other. Now the only one Harry could see was the dark road, and he understood the wordless message more than he had expected to.

"You think that I'll destroy the world, or destroy myself, or destroy the magic," Harry said, and watched the flinch that traveled through its body when he spoke the last. "Ah. That's the important thing, isn't it? The power that I have. You want it free of the world somehow, because it can change too many things here." He thought of something he hadn't thought of in years, and pursed his lips. "What would have happened if the Hat _had _Sorted me into Slytherin, I wonder? It's good for you that I'm not ambitious, or I would want to stay here just to use the magic to achieve something, not waste it on this journey."

The stag danced in agitation, and for the first time in this conversation, its voice appeared in Harry's mind. _It is not a waste. You do not understand._

"Is it death?" Harry asked bluntly, and the stag showed him the dark road in its eye again. He shook his head. "Not that road, the lightning one."

_No_.

"Then that means that I would never see my parents or Sirius, which might have been the only thing you could offer me that would tempt me away from staying here," Harry stated calmly. "And I'll probably never see anyone alive again. I might find grand things, but I never wanted grand things. I wanted someone to love me, and a family, and a place to live that was a home."

The stag shuddered as if such talk offended it. _You were a hero._

Harry blinked. "Wow," he said at last. "You have the same delusion as they did. Pedlar and the rest who wanted me to be the perfect leader. I was a hero because circumstances forced me to be, not because I loved it. If you wanted to give the magic to a traditional hero, you should have picked one who didn't grow up with abusive relatives and without friends and then have to fight the monster time and again before he killed him. That's not the kind of life or existence I want."

The stag vanished without a word. Harry half-expected his magic to go with it—which would solve one problem while creating a whole host of others—but the flame remained curled, warm, around him. Harry lay down again and reached back to feel for Draco.

Still there.

_And as long as he wants to be, he will be._


	42. A Meeting to Burn the World

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Forty-Two—A Meeting to Burn the World_

"They want to meet with us."

Harry blinked and turned his gaze from the corner of the room where he had last seen the lightning stag, or at least a burning flash of yellow and white radiance that was probably the stag. He raised an eyebrow at Ron. "The Minister? Or someone else?"

"Hermione and her allies." Ron swallowed and folded his arms in front of him as though he thought Harry would strike at him and he was holding it off. Harry felt an enormous weariness as he watched that, but, well. There was only so much he could blame his friends for when he had done things like kill Pedlar with fire that burned even her bones. "I don't think they trust you. They want to know what your plans are to kill Minister Clearwater and make sure that the revolution doesn't end."

"Who said that I was going to kill her?" Harry asked quietly. "I've already killed one Minister. I would prefer not to be known as the man who murdered two."

Ron stared at Harry with his mouth open. "But you have to," he said at last, when color had flooded back into his face and breath back into his lungs. "There's no _choice. _Otherwise, she's just going to kill all of us the moment we surrender. Dover and the rest might not believe that, but Hermione does, and I do."

Harry smiled a little. "She's not going to do that if she has other things to worry about."

"Well, what, then?" Ron leaned forwards as if he'd rise from his chair and dash at Harry. Understandable, really, Harry thought, with that lack of trust he had mentioned. "What's your plan that you keep hiding from people?"

"Not from _people_," Harry corrected him. "From the lightning stag, and the prophecy. I'd be happy enough to tell _you_, but then I'd have to deal with the consequences of it realizing what I mean to do. It might manage to prevent it from happening." He shuddered a little as he thought of the power that had passed him down on the floor of Fred and George's lab. "It's much stronger than I am, and I think—I think that the magic was given to me for a _reason, _the same way everyone likes to pretend that Voldemort chose me for some deeper reason than because I was a half-blood like him. I'm supposed to do something with the magic, give it back or go up in some grand explosion. I have something else in mind."

Ron said nothing. Harry flickered back to himself and blinked at his friend, who had his hands clenched down on the edges of his seat and a fixed smile on his face. Harry snorted and rolled his eyes. "It's _all right, _Ron," he said. "Really. I promise that I'm not going to fly into a rage and roast you the way I did Pedlar. But I can't explain it more clearly than that for the reasons I just told you."

"Has anyone else ever seen this stag?" Ron asked, which wasn't the question Harry had expected. "Has anyone ever managed to see it, or do you think you might be imagining it and the future and the prophecy?"

"Hermione sent me the prophecy," Harry reminded him. "She believes in it as much as I do. And George has seen it." He didn't think mentioning Fred at the moment would be productive.

"Just because Hermione sent you the prophecy doesn't mean that she believes in it," Ron said quietly. "Can I—can you make me see the stag?" He looked as if he hoped the answer would be positive and negative, at the same time.

"I don't know if it'll come when I call, but I can try," Harry said, and then gestured sharply with his arm. He felt the air flowing around him, and tried to ignore that. He kept his gaze fixed on the corner where he thought he had seen the flash of light, and bent his force of will into making the stag appear rather than creating fire.

It was harder than he had expected. His magic was strong, yes, but by now, the fire almost maintained itself. Doing something else with his will was strange. Different. Pressing enough to make him wince and wish that he hadn't agreed, that Ron would just accept his word for it that the stag existed and—

Then the lightning stag was between them, dancing the way it had in the clouds when they rode the dragons to Azkaban, its eyes fastened on Harry and his hooves going so fast that Harry thought they would tear up the stone. He didn't look over at first to see whether Ron could see it. He kept them fastened on the stag, and slowly the dancing stopped and the beast let its head droop as if defeated. It kept its eyes on Harry, though, and he saw the two roads in them, stretching away into the distance, so he doubted that it had been conquered.

"Bloody _hell_."

That was Ron, and by the tone of his voice, he could see the stag _now_. Harry gave a faint smile and glanced over at him. Ron had one fist up to his mouth, his fascinated gaze locked on the lightning beast.

"It looks like your Patronus."

Harry nodded. "I think it adopted that form to make it more tempting for me to follow it." It certainly hadn't done so for any other reason that he could think of. What was there about the future that made it _have _to appear in the shape of a stag?

Ron reached out with a tentative hand. Harry opened his mouth to warn him off, since he thought touching the lightning would be like trying to grasp a bolt from the heavens, but the stag simply turned away and vanished before Ron could come into contact with it. Ron stared at where it had been, wrinkled his nose at the sharp tang of storms that filled the room, and shook his head.

"I could feel the power, mate," he said quietly, as if Harry hadn't thought he could. "How are you going to fight something like _that_?"

Harry waited for a moment, wondering if he should do what he had it in mind to do. On the one hand, there was no reason for him to show off. But on the other, Ron was staring at him with such concern that Harry sensed he'd gone from being scared _of _him to being scared _for _him. And it was nice to know that there was someone around other than Draco and George and Fred who felt that way.

Harry leaned back and lifted his hands. This time, he didn't have to push like he had to bring the lightning stag into view. His will washed out and up and down, creating a sea of warmth so effortlessly that Harry had to hold himself back somewhat. He only intended to show Ron why he wasn't worried about the stag, not burn the whole building down.

Flame built up in front of him, and then divided into two, and two again, and two again. Harry spun his hands—inexpertly, but he knew what he wanted to happen even if he didn't know how to do it—and the spinning flames froze in place and then wove themselves together. Harry gathered up the coat that had draped itself across his arms, thick and warm and red and made of gleaming, solidified flame. He held it out to Ron.

Ron took it, staring at it in a daze. Harry smiled. "Do you want to wear it?" he asked. "It's perfectly tame, and it'll protect you from any burns you take short of dragonfire." It might stand up to dragons, come to that, but Harry didn't think that he'd risk it.

"I didn't know you could do things like that," Ron said, and slid the coat around his shoulders. "You created the ropes when we went to Azkaban, but they were temporary. And they felt weird." He fingered the sleeves of the coat and the back of the neck and then shook his head. "This just feels like cloth."

Harry nodded.

Ron stared at him again, but this time, his eyes were calculating, and Harry was relieved. Yes, he preferred his friend when he was thinking about how to win the war and wasn't staring mad with fear. "How many things can you create?" he asked.

Harry bowed his head and spread his hands by way of answer. The flames came back, and he could feel them dancing on the edges of his fingers and spreading and spinning through his veins. His wrists ached with the pressure of holding them in his bones, but he decided that didn't matter. He bent the flames, forced them to adopt the shape he wanted, and expended the effort in a rush of breath that he knew probably made fire dance near the walls. But nothing burned, because Harry didn't want it to.

_If you wanted it to…_

Yes. Harry knew that he could burn the world if he wanted to. But it was more difficult to create things, or a myriad of things all at once, like this. And it would be even harder to make multiple huge things happen at the same time. That was why he needed the machine that the twins were building.

The effort left him then, and the flames stopped dancing in him, and there was no sound in the silence but Ron's soft panting.

Harry lifted his head.

The room had changed into the Gryffindor common room from Hogwarts. The fireplace was in the exact spot it should have been, and the flames were real, of course. The furnishings were the same, and the red and gold on the walls that was dim and welcoming in the light of the fire, and the carpet. Harry turned and looked, and saw the portrait hole in the wall. He hadn't bothered to put the Fat Lady on the other side of it, deciding that there were limits to his realism, but he could if Ron really wanted him to.

"_Fuck._"

Ron didn't say _that _often. Harry laughed, and watched him run a hand over the couch that had been his favorite during their last year at the school, and then flop down on it. He grunted as his head bounced off the arm, because he was a little taller than he'd been then, but he still looked happier than Harry had seen him be since the start of the war, when he'd had to leave Hermione behind. He let his eyes fall closed, and sighed.

Then they popped open, and he stared at Harry. "This is an illusion, right?" he asked. "You could make it vanish, and everything would be right back to the way it was?"

"I could make it vanish," Harry acknowledged, "but there's no illusion. The fire—it changes things."

"How?"

Harry shrugged helplessly. He didn't know how to explain the sensation of fire dancing in his bones, much less explain this. But once again, the lack of fear in Ron's eyes, the return of his curiosity, was wonderful, so Harry tried.

"It purifies them. It turns them into things, but not just ash, the way that ordinary fire does." _And the fire that you used to kill Pedlar, _he was sure Ron was thinking for a second, by the look in his eyes. But he just nodded for Harry to go on, so he continued. "I could change the room back by pulling the fire away and telling it to transform things into their original state again. But it's not just illusion."

"No," Ron said, and ran an admiring hand down the couch back again. Then he sat up. "Do you think you could _make _a safe place for us to meet with Hermione and her allies? That ought to tell them that you aren't really mad."

Harry thought his smile was going to crack his face.

* * *

Harry, Ron, and Malfoy met them in the middle of the Forest of Dean, after Hermione had vetoed one of his wilder suggestions about meeting in a hall constructed of fire. Hermione had chosen the Forest on purpose because it was a place that would mean something to her and to Harry and Ron, but most of the spies in the Ministry wouldn't be able to make a guess about it. And she knew for a fact that it was nowhere near the house where Harry and Ron were keeping their headquarters.

Ron was there first, and he met her eyes and then crossed the distance between them. Hermione realized that her heartbeat was coming fast enough to make her body shake. She swallowed. Of course she knew it hadn't been her fault that Clearwater used the Imperius Curse on her, and she knew that Ron had probably come to terms with it by now, or he wouldn't have looked at her like that. But still, they hadn't seen each other in months, and now…

Then he was there, and he leaned in and put his hands on her shoulders and his mouth on hers, and for a little while she could stop worrying.

When they broke apart, Hermione was glad to see that Ron's face was just as rosy as hers, just as likely to lose the freckles in a wash of red. She smiled at him and leaned her head on his shoulder. Ron stroked her hair and didn't say anything. Hermione thought he probably wanted to, but words choked both their throats and would make no sense if uttered aloud. And this wasn't the time or place, in front of her allies, who were still jumpy about Harry's madness, and with Malfoy watching them.

"You okay?" Ron whispered.

"Yeah," Hermione said, and that much she could manage and sound normal. "I am. You?"

"I am now."

That was all they had time for, since Raggleworth was clearing her throat behind them, and Hermione knew that she could be even more piercing when ignored. She took Ron's hand, squeezed it once, and then reluctantly moved away. Ron was close behind her as they came up to Harry and Malfoy. A healthy space of grass still separated them from her allies, Hermione noticed. The one standing closest was Noble, who looked as unconcerned about everything as ever.

"Harry Potter," Greta said, and then nodded to him and grinned. "I see you see the family resemblance. Don't worry. I'm not going to assign you detentions or keep around china plates with moving cats on them. Those things were _horrid_."

Harry shook his head as though he couldn't believe that he actually had someone in front of him who would refer that casually to Umbridge. "You're related to her," he said. "And you haven't kicked her off the family tree yet?"

Greta shrugged. "None of us can stand her, but no. She clings on too hard to that one branch that can carry her."

Harry smiled, and Hermione studied him. She reckoned that he didn't look too differently from the last time she'd seen him, except for the way he canted his body to shield Malfoy almost from sight. Then again, the Harry that she'd known would never have taken Malfoy for a lover, and that much change, she could accept.

Harry turned his smile on her, and Hermione saw the real change, then. In the depths of his eyes, there was a light and a glory it was hard to face. So much light. So much flame. So much _magic, _she realized, as she caught sight of a faint red shimmer around his shoulders and head. The fire wasn't only showing when he was angry, as it had when he burned Duplais. It was there all the time, and Harry seemed comfortable with it, rather than drawing it forth simply as a threat or weapon.

Could someone hold onto that much magic and be sane?

Hermione didn't think so, but ultimately, she wasn't the one Harry had to convince. Her allies had plenty of things to say to him, and Raggleworth, in particular, wouldn't be put off much longer. So she smiled at him, stepped back, and let Raggleworth and Smithson look critically at Harry. From the intensity of their eyes, she almost thought they intended to find an answer as to whether he could save them from Minister Clearwater written somewhere on his body.

"Do you know what we are asking you to do?" Smithson asked, his voice gruff and deep, probably to hide some emotion. Hermione wasn't sure she wanted to know what it was.

"Keep Minister Clearwater from falling on your heads like a ton of boulders?" Harry nodded. "I think it's clear enough."

"We could handle her," Raggleworth said, "if she was only another Auror or politician." Hermione saw Harry wince a little at the shrillness of the woman's voice, and grinned behind her hand. There were ways that Harry hadn't changed, then. That was good to see. "But she has the might of the Ministry behind her. We need you to keep that occupied while we prove to others that she has committed crimes that justify removing her from office."

From the way Harry blinked, he had never considered that plan. Then he frowned. "If you don't trust me not to roast you alive, how can you trust me enough to make plans with me?" he asked.

Noble stepped in as if she'd been waiting for this moment. "Auror Potter, perhaps you would permit me to examine you? I am a Mind-Healer. While I cannot, of course, make sure pronouncements in all cases of dubious sanity, my allies trust me, and they might accept my word for what is in your head better than yours."

Harry turned to stare at Noble, and Hermione held her breath. _Don't fuck this up, Harry, please don't fuck this up, it's the best chance we're going to get…_

Then Harry smiled and inclined his head. "You can look," he said. "But you're probably not going to understand most of what you're seeing."

"That need not matter." Noble moved forwards and reached out as if she would cup Harry's cheeks in her hands. Hermione saw Malfoy shift uneasily at that, though he prevented himself from interfering. Harry was the one who raised his eyebrows, and Noble paused, drawing her wand.

"You can remain still when someone reads your mind?" she asked. "Most people find it painful."

"I've borne a lot worse pain," Harry said, in that voice he used sometimes that made Hermione's eyes want to fill with tears, because he had no idea how much he was admitting. He stood still after that, and Noble's wand lifted, flicked, and came down again, casting a faint glow of white along Harry's cheeks. He bowed his head, which must not have counted as a movement, because it was only then that Noble whispered the spell.

The clearing was silent. Hermione glanced back at her allies and found that both Raggleworth and Smithson were holding their breaths. Greta ate a sweet, saw Hermione looking, and winked. Hermione turned back around, because she wasn't in the mood to deal with Greta right now.

Noble broke from the contact with a stagger and turned away, her shoulders shaking. For a moment, Hermione thought she was going to vomit, but she must have conquered it, since she shook her head and swallowed. Then she turned back to Harry as if no else existed and said, "You should have received healing for some of those wounds long since."

"I don't like people poking about in my head," Harry said simply, meeting and holding her gaze. "You've seen why."

After a moment, Noble nodded, as if she didn't like it but had been made to agree, and then sighed and turned to face the others. "His mind is scarred from You-Know-Who's possession, and from channeling immense magic," she said. "But I could find none of the common traces of madness, even the kind that begins to creep up when an unwilling person is subjected to the Imperius Curse." For a moment, her eyes flickered to Hermione.

"How can we trust this?" Raggleworth demanded. "So much of what he has done so far has been mad."

Harry coughed. To Hermione, it sounded like the warning sound a lion would make right before he charged. "If you won't take the Mind-Healer's word, and you won't take mine," he said, voice soft, "then we might have an impasse, and we might be incapable of allying with you after all."

"No," Hermione intervened quickly. She'd tried and tried to make sure that this alliance would work, and she wasn't going to be balked because Harry and her allies wanted to be prickly at each other. "No, it doesn't have to be like that, really. Madam Raggleworth, , is there anything you _would _accept as assurance that he isn't mad?"

"I need to hear the answers to some questions from Potter's lips," Smithson said, and gave Hermione a harsh look. "I understand that you want to protect your friend, but I need to hear them from him."

Hermione winced, but nodded. Her heartbeat sped up when she saw the way Harry stood, his arms patiently folded, and stared at Smithson. He could change things here so that they went badly, but Harry didn't seem to understand the power he had in this situation. He barely seemed to care, in fact; the emotion that Hermione thought she saw thrumming under his blank, bored surface was amusement.

"Why did you burn Auror Pedlar to death?" Smithson asked.

"Because she threatened to kill the man I love," Harry said. Malfoy surged behind him for a moment, and then fell back a pace. Hermione was glad. The last thing they needed right now was Malfoy saying something and getting in the way. "I couldn't let that pass."

Smithson waited, but when it became obvious that Harry wouldn't say anything else, he frowned and leaned forwards slightly. "And did you realize that by burning Auror Pedlar to death, you would make others think you were mad?"

Harry snorted. "Most people already did. They think I'm mad because of the way I can call dragons, or because of my magic, or because they don't like the direction I took the revolution in. I didn't particularly care for the new rumors that were going to spring up. If you want to see real madness, then you should look to Pedlar. She kept challenging me when I'd demonstrated my willingness to smack her down but let her live, and she thought her magic was stronger than mine. Insane."

Smithson frowned and exchanged a glance with Raggleworth, who stepped forwards. "Why did you burn Minister Duplais to death?" she asked.

"That was an accident," Harry said, and his voice had gone deep and quiet, reflective in a way that Hermione didn't think she'd heard since their last year at Hogwarts. "I lost control of my temper and my wild magic. I have it under much better control now. See?" He curled his hand into a loose fist, and flames stuck out of it, then coiled back around and formed the image of a phoenix hovering over the back of Harry's wrist.

The phoenix flapped its wings and blinked at them, then soared over their heads and looped about like a firework. Harry opened his hands, and it flew back to him and faded into the flames that still curled about his fingers.

Hermione relaxed with a little huff of breath. That might have been one of the smartest things Harry could do. By showing that he had that level of control over wandless fire—the same weapon that had killed Duplais—he was reassuring his allies and telling them that they would have a powerful force on their side if they accepted him both at once.

"I think we've seen enough," Greta declared for them, and pointed her sweet-bearing hand at Harry. "So, what's the plan?"


	43. Like a Doll

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Forty-Three—Like a Doll_

"You think this'll work?"

Weasley and Harry were speaking in low voices, as though they assumed the forest was full of spies that might want to stop their plan. Or, Draco thought, perhaps because Weasley did not trust him. He kept his eyes fastened straight ahead and stood listening to other things, including the pops of Apparition behind him as Granger's allies disappeared. They had been out in the forest for several hours, laying together the groundwork for a "surrender" to the Minister that would be anything but.

The conversation surged again, and Harry said, "Yes, of course it'll work. It fits nicely into the plan I've been contemplating." So calm, Draco thought, as though he expected the world to fall at his feet and do his bidding. Perhaps he did. This was not the Potter he had known in Hogwarts, whose plans went wrong half the time and whose body and magic only seemed to truly obey him on the Quidditch pitch. This was—someone else.

"The plan that you still won't tell me," Weasley said. His voice scraped and crackled, with a raw patch in the middle. Draco cocked his head and moved closer. If there was some argument between them, then Harry hadn't told him about it.

"I can't tell you that because it would mean the lightning stag finding out," Harry said, and _his _voice remained calm and confident, even as apology tinged it. "Which can't happen, not if I want to survive the bloody plan itself. Sorry."

Draco came up close enough beside them to see Weasley shut his eyes and shake his head. He muttered a word that might have been any number of insults and then whirled away. Harry watched him go with a faint frown, which he transmuted into a smile when he saw Draco watching. He held out his hand.

Draco hesitated before he went up to him, mainly to prove that he could. He had been disturbed by the change in himself over the last few days, the rush of emotion that consumed him whenever he looked at or listened to Harry. The compulsion he seemed to have to obey his orders without hesitation.

_Is this what love feels like, or is it just his magic affecting me? _Draco doubted he would ever know the answer; he couldn't figure it out himself, Harry would only say what was most hopeful, and no one else was interested enough to help him figure it out.

"Are you all right?" Harry whispered, taking Draco's hand in his and bringing it to his lips. His slightest touch stung with fire and raised slight blisters if he didn't watch himself. He did now, but Draco still shivered from the power pressing down on his skin.

"I'm sorry that I didn't give you the chance to speak in the meeting with Hermione's allies," Harry went on. He watched Draco with bright eyes that didn't see everything, but still far too much for comfort. "I thought they would have a harder time trusting you if it seemed that you had a huge part in our plans."

"Do I?" Draco took a step closer, determined, for once, to overcome these squeezing feelings of uncertainty that kept him silent and take the battle to Harry. "You made all of them without me tonight. I don't think you need me at your side for anything but your personal comfort, do you? You could just as easily do this without me."

Harry hesitated. Draco was glad to see the way his eyelids flickered, glad to know that he wasn't entirely aloof and above it all.

"It doesn't help much if you want a more active part, I know," Harry acknowledged at last, slowly, as if he was exploring the idea the way that he might let his tongue explore a cracked tooth. "But I couldn't do this without you. One huge part of my plan concerns you and your parents, and getting you to safety. And hopefully me being able to go with you, but that's less important than the safety and the illusion and the surrender."

"Safety, illusion, surrender," Draco repeated. At least he knew more than Weasley about Harry's plan, although he doubted that he could divine much about it from just knowing the names. But it was something, to realize it had three parts. "It sounds like it's enormously complicated. Are you sure that you can do it by yourself?"

Harry caught his hand and squeezed, and this time the fire was more present, flowing over Draco's fingers and curling about his palm as though it grew there. Draco stifled a pant to look up at Harry, wide-eyed. Harry was smiling back at him, but gently, as though he thought this might be the last time they would see each other.

"I'm having George build me a machine that I hope will help," he said. "But if he can't build it, or if it doesn't work the way I expect it will, that leaves me to handle the magic alone." He held out an arm, and the fire snapped into being and paraded around it, up to his shoulder. "It's not something that I particularly _want _to do," he added, speaking to himself now. "But my magic has to be stronger than I need for a reason, doesn't it? And this is the most important thing in the world to me."

He looked back at Draco. "And you're the more important person," he said simply. "I promise, I am going to do all I can to keep you safe, and to keep those you love safe."

Draco nodded, and then nodded again. His mouth was dry. His tongue felt large and hot, disconnected from him. Surely that was the reason he said what he did next, because who could expect him to have _control _of it? "Does that include you?"

Harry blinked at him. Draco would have thought his meaning immediate and obvious, but it didn't seem it was. "Excuse me? I can't promise that I'll be safe if I follow this plan, Draco. Not really. I'll try, but in the midst of magic like that and what the prophecy might do to me if it figures out what I intend—"

"I meant," Draco said, "that you owe it to me to keep yourself safe, if you're really trying to protect the people I love."

There was a moment when the forest seemed to wheel about them, the green shadows under the trees stopping, the light visible in the distance breaking into stars. Harry's eyes widened, and Draco looked away, feeling queasy at what he saw in them. But he had spoken the words, he had taken the step. There was no going back.

"Oh," Harry said, a soft sound, but one that Draco thought flat enough to encompass all the many and varied emotions he was feeling. Harry reached out, half-groping, and Draco caught and held his hand. "Oh. Yes. I promise."

His fingers clenched down again, and this time the fire was visible in a phoenix-shaped flare of the kind that he had used to impress Granger's allies. Draco bowed his head and let the flames touch his face briefly.

Then Harry was pulling him in, kissing him and kissing him as if his heart would break, and Draco understood more than Harry might have wanted him to about what he was feeling at the moment. He locked his hands in Harry's shirt and kissed back.

* * *

_I think we're looking at this the wrong way. We assumed all three loops on the machine added up to a single goal. But what if each of them just works in a way that _complements _the other ones? If they do three different things and the purpose is to make sure Harry can channel the magic for each one, without those different blasts of magic interfering with each other?_

George swiped his sleeve across his forehead and stood back, frowning at the machine. For the moment, he had something to think about other than Fred's words. The machine—the bloody machine was growing. They were building it. That was great, that was wonderful, and it meant they could do what Harry asked.

But it sometimes seemed to George, in the last few hours especially, that _they _were no longer the ones building the machine. As though some larger purpose had taken over his hands and both their thoughts and begun to direct them.

George still didn't know what the machine was for, and Harry's original sketch was sometimes hard to interpret. But he had found himself adding a tiny, extra loop of reinforced pewter to the side of each of the large loops without needing to squint at the scribbles on the parchment. Were those scribbles loops or just doodles, or even an attempt at representing the shadows of the larger loops? George didn't know, but he knew those small loops were supposed to be part of the machine that was actually taking form, and he had added them without stopping to think.

This was something that had never happened to him before. He had invented potions and pranks in harmony with Fred before that could sometimes _feel _like it, but even then, he was able to trace the addition of new ingredients or a new (and spectacular) side-effect to something they had discussed weeks or months ago. This wasn't the case, since they had just started working on the machine and Harry had been less than helpful with telling them what it was for or suggesting which materials they should use.

_Did you hear what I said? _

George mopped sweat off his forehead again and stepped further back from the machine, just in case it could infect him with new ideas while it was sitting there. "I did," he replied. "And it's nothing more than what I thought from the beginning. The effects will complement each other, sure. Harry implied that much, if he didn't say it."

Fred growled wordlessly. _And have you thought about what it could _mean _for the world, to have three bursts of magic unleashed on it at once like that, if Harry really is mad and doesn't know what he's doing?_

George swallowed, hard. "We have to trust him," he said after a minute. "He's no more mad than we are, and we—we've achieved a lot, and it's in the teeth of people who thought we were insane."

_You can hear me, and I can hear me, _Fred pointed out. _We're in each other's heads, so we can at least act as checks on each other. I haven't seen any evidence that Harry's been hearing voices other than the lightning stag. Do you really imagine the situation is comparable? _

George nodded, but when Fred's presence still clung to the back of his head, waiting, he sighed. "Yes, it is. Harry has a skill that most other people don't understand and think he should exploit in limited ways. It's the same thing with us and our skill at inventions. I'm sure Mum and the rest of society wouldn't blame us for having stayed employed at the joke shop, instead of joining the revolution. Harry was the only one who saw the potential in us and managed to call us forth for it."

_So we shouldn't question him because he extended a courtesy to us? But the best use of his trust in us might be to tell him when he's going wrong. You know no one else will._

George snorted hard enough to get a few flecks of moisture on the defensive shield that they'd wrapped around the machine. "Wrong, mate. No one in the revolution except us and maybe Malfoy does anything _but _tell him he's wrong, day in and day out. Add the Ministry to it, and he's getting the full chorus. There's no reason for him to do anything if we start yelling but pull back and stop trusting us."

_If he hurts the world…_

"We don't know that he will. Hell, for all we know this machine will be the _saving _of the world." George reached out and patted the air near the shield charm. "Without more information, we can't say one way or the other."

Fred was silent for a few seconds. Then he said, _So you're asking me to take it on faith. All of it, all the damage he could do and all the power he could wield._

George nodded. "Everything that we've done, we've taken on faith so far," he said, when he felt the pressure in his mind and realized that Fred was waiting for him to say more. "That he could summon dragons. That he could actually remove prisoners from Azkaban without harming them before he burned down the place. That he could use the machines we made for him. That he could control the revolution for long enough to land it _somewhere_. That he wasn't mad." He paused, sighed out, then said, "That he believed us, that you were real. So. This is only one more thing."

_It's the last thing._

George nodded, his eyes fastened on the shimmering loops of metal that soared out of the middle of the machine. "Think you're right about that. One way or the other."

* * *

"Enter, Hermione."

It was hard, Hermione thought, sweeping into the Minister's office just behind her command, to face Clearwater after seeing her husband, and feeling Ron's hands on her shoulders as he whispered to her, and seeing in his eyes that his belief in her had never wavered, not for a moment. Why? It should have given her a jolt of strength to finish up her last few days in the Minister's "service," not made it harder.

_But it did. _Hermione gave Clearwater a smile full of teeth and bowed her head, murmuring, "If you please, Minister, I come at your request."

To her, at least, it felt horribly different from the responses she had given when she was under the Imperius Curse—then she had sounded more cringing, weak and compliant—but Clearwater seemed not to see that. She just nodded back as if Hermione's response held no surprises, then stood up and made a gesture towards the far side of the office. Hermione, following the motion of her wand, saw a Disillusionment Charm suddenly turn pale and fall away like watery glass.

Beneath it stood a tall woman in hooded robes. The robes were black with scarlet edging, Hermione saw—dramatic. The hood was pulled so low that Hermione stood no chance of seeing her face, but the shape of her body proclaimed her female.

"It is time for allies to meet," Clearwater said, but the smile on her face was fake, and her hold on the wand too tight for this to be someone she trusted. Hermione tried not to show that she'd noticed, tried to keep her smile bright and false and her eyes a glittering mask over nothingness. "Please reveal your face, Auror."

_Auror. _Hermione felt a cramp twist in her belly, and that was the hardest thing to keep off her face so far. As if in a dream, she saw the woman put her hands to the sides of her hood and fling it back—dramatically, of course, she would do everything dramatically—to show Auror Desang's face.

_Someone under the Imperius Curse would show no reaction. She wouldn't care about her relationship to the woman before the Curse, and if the Minister introduced her as an ally she would accept her that way._

So Hermione calmed her breathing and showed no sign, standing there with the same idiot's smile and fixed gaze. Desang stared at her, and Hermione stopped the nervous swallow she wanted to give. Aurors would probably have more experience with the Imperius Curse than a Minister would. On the other hand, Clearwater had been an Auror herself, and Desang hadn't been around to see what Hermione looked like when she was still firmly under Clearwater's control. It ought to be _possible _to fool both of them, though Hermione had no idea whether she would achieve it.

"That's her," Desang said, and the loathing and the satisfaction lay in her voice like iron blocks.

"Very good." Hermione wondered if she imagined the way that Clearwater stepped to the side, getting in between them. "Hermione, you'll be working with Andrea for the duration of the week. I want you to go over the reports I gave you yesterday, file them, and follow any instructions Andrea gives you."

Hermione bobbed her head happily and murmured the expected, "Of course, Minister," that she traditionally used to greet all her orders. Desang continued to watch her, breathing as silently and slowly as a snake ready to strike. Hermione didn't directly meet her eyes; she wouldn't unless she was told to. She hoped fervently that was an acceptable move for someone under the Curse to make.

"Fine," Desang said, and exchanged a glance with the Minister. No doubt they meant no one outside their little pair to be able to interpret it, but Hermione knew what they were saying perfectly well. A cramp of a knot twisted together in her belly. _Desang wants to get revenge on me. She must, and Clearwater will probably let her the minute I'm no longer useful to her._

Now the problem became whether she should try to convince the Minister that she _could _be useful, longer, or simply hang onto until the moment, a week from now, when the revolutionaries were scheduled to surrender. Hermione considered that, then muffled a snort. No choice, really. People under Imperius didn't have motivations or initiative of their own. Any plan she proposed would sound silly and false, and not originate with Clearwater.

_I'll have to survive. Assuming Desang doesn't do anything literally Unforgivable to me between then and now. _Hermione would break cover if she had to to spare her own life, and hope that her actions couldn't be traced back to her allies or Ron and Harry.

She turned away and walked towards her office, carrying the new files the Minister had given her and fixing a smile on her face that ought to stand up against any casual glances Desang would give her. Of course, how many of them would be casual?

There was also the temptation to hold her breath against the scrutiny, to resist as hard as she could, to keep her muscles coiled in constant readiness. Hermione had to hide a grimace as that thought struck her. And how long could she keep _that _up, before her guard would inevitably relax or Desang would notice and wonder?

"Hermione."

For a moment, Hermione pondered whether someone under the Imperius Curse would respond to her first name. She compromised, dawdling to a stop and turning around like a clumsy toy. She kept her face bright and blank, and bobbed her head again without saying anything. Even asking, "Yes?" might be too much.

Desang watched her, eyes narrowed, her wand spinning lightly between her fingers. Hermione wondered for a moment how she had come to be matched with a wand again, but she couldn't allow that curiosity to show in her eyes. Someone like Hermione-under-Imperius wouldn't remember from one moment to the next that Desang had ever been parted from her wand, or what she had done before she became the Minister's obedient slave, unless the Minister wanted her to recall it.

_I hate this. _Hermione had to admit that she didn't know how spies like Snape had survived, or how people like Lucius Malfoy, who'd lied about being under the Imperius Curse during the first war, functioned. Keeping up a simple deception for a few hours at a time when she was in the Minister's sight was exhausting.

"I know what you did to me," Desang said, and surged a step forwards before she seemed to control herself by sheer force of will. She stopped and showed her teeth. "You needn't think I'll let you get away with it."

Hermione widened her eyes in naïve puzzlement. _Careful, careful. Don't let her see you breathing too fast. _"What I did to you," she echoed, and stood there like a doll waiting to be posed.

"Yes." Desang slid her fingers up and down her wand again, and Hermione controlled a violent shiver. _I can't let her see what that does to me, I can't. Someone under the Imperius would have no reason to be afraid. _"When the Minister doesn't need you, then I'll be allowed to exact my revenge." She smiled at her. "I think I'll order you to simply march straight into the wand. That ought to be fun. Knowing that you can't turn around and can't resist."

"It will be fun," Hermione said, simple Hermione, bobbing her head on her neck and resisting the temptation to bolt. Inside, her brain knocked against the inside of her skull and her heart hurled itself against her ribs.

Desang moved closer, her smile gone, her pulse jumping so violently Hermione could see it. She reached out and put a hand on the side of Hermione's face, tilting her head back and forth. Hermione's skin crawled, but she went with it. Was it harder than what Ron had done, by trusting her and Harry when they must both seem mad to him? Was it harder than what she had done so far, walking around and letting the Minister believe she had her on a leash?

"You ruined my life," Desang whispered. "I know that the revolution couldn't have got as far as it did if not for you. I _know _my name would never have been ruined and people wouldn't have distrusted me if not for you." Her hand closed down on the side of Hermione's face, her fingers pinching the skin, and Hermione winced in pain before she could stop herself. Luckily, if that wasn't a reaction she should have had, Desang was too occupied with her accusations to notice. She bent close enough that she was practically breathing in Hermione's eyes. "I'm going to enjoy the time I make that up to you _so much_."

Hermione held her breath. She thought that Desang might actually go mad in the middle of the corridor and kill her right there. Her actions seemed erratic enough to do so, and if she got her revenge, she might not mind the punishment that the Minister gave her later.

Then Desang pulled away and turned her head aside, closing her eyes as if she had to recover from her own daring. "Come along," she said in clipped tones, turning her back. "There's information about Potter that I want you to give me."

Hermione followed her, tucking away the fear and reminding herself that this was the part she should have no problem with. She could divulge all sorts of harmless truths that didn't matter now, because the revolution and Harry were poised to change everything and the Minister already knew them.

What she _didn't _know if she could do was keep up her playacting to the extent that she reckoned she probably needed it.

_Fly with those burning wings when you need to set them on fire, Hermione. You've done well so far._


	44. On the Run

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Forty-Four—On the Run_

"There's no permanent solution, is there?"

Draco had almost been expecting to hear something from Harry when he stepped out of his parents' room, though rationally, there was no reason why he would. Now, though, at least that expectation kept him from starting. He just shook his head, grunted, and leaned against the door, closing his eyes.

"No," he murmured. "Neither of them listens to reason. My father really thinks that he's just going to walk out of this house, and the Manor will be the same as it was before, and so will the Ministry, and he can resume his old life as if nothing has happened. I don't know if he's insane or just had his time sense frozen."

Harry rubbed his back and made sympathetic sounds under his breath. "And your mother?" he asked, when Draco had spent some time leaning on his shoulder in silence.

"She wants me to help them escape," Draco said. "I've brought up all the objections I can, the lack of wands and how we're watched and how hard it would be for them to get anywhere, but it doesn't seem to matter. She wants what she wants, and trying to suggest otherwise makes her think—" He shook his head. "I don't know what she thinks, and I don't want to think through it, either. She chose my father, and while she knows the world is different than it used to be, she still thinks it's escapable. I don't know what to tell her to make her realize that it isn't like that. Maybe nothing can."

Harry hummed under his breath and smoothed his hand down towards Draco's flank. "Is there anything I can do to help?" he whispered.

Draco pulled back and stared at him suspiciously. Harry blinked back at him. "What?" he asked.

"You already know something," Draco said. "You already have a plan. You wouldn't have—have _whispered _like that if there was really nothing. I know you. That was a savage and cunning whisper."

Harry smiled at him in what looked like genuine delight. "Really? It was?"

Draco shoved him this time, ignoring the part of him that was still slightly in shock at treating the famous Harry Potter like this. Hell, he'd never thought that he would have the famous Harry Potter as a lover, either. If he could get used to the one, then he could get used to the other.

"Yes, I do have a plan," Harry said. "I'm going to try and help you. I hope it'll be a permanent solution, or the beginning of a permanent solution." He reached out and took Draco's hands in his, his eyes so wide and solemn that Draco had to swallow. His playful mood vanished. Harry would try to help them, he was sure, but if even _he _was uncertain about the result… "I can't explain it yet, for the same reason that I can't explain all the other parts of the plan. If it works, then you should have the chance to let your parents heal. Or you can decide what else to do with them. You'll have nothing but safety, and freedom, and time."

_But perhaps not you, _Draco thought. _I notice that you didn't include yourself in that list. _He wasn't in the right mood to hear Harry hide anything right now, though, so he asked a different question instead. "Will this take place when the revolution takes you to surrender to the Minister?"

Harry nodded, his eyes large now. He always looked like that when he was thinking about the other members of the revolution, Draco knew. Sometimes he thought it was guilt at not having done enough for them. Other times, he assumed Harry was simply looking into the future and doing his best to envision what it would be like.

"I don't think you should go," Draco said. "You have your plans, but the others could have ones that counter those, even without being aware of yours. What if it's a trap?"

"Oh, I _know _it will be," Harry said, snapping his attention back to that time and place, but looking more than vaguely surprised that Draco would ask that question. "The Minister probably plans to kill me and arrest anyone she can get her hands on, except perhaps the people who have helped her the most. I have to be ready for that."

"What can you do to be ready for it, when you don't know the details?" Draco was coming to realize how many of Lucius's plans had depended on simply being aware of what his enemies were doing, most of the time because he had bribed or blackmailed someone close to them. Without that foreknowledge, he was as lost in the dark as everyone else.

Harry responded with flames that caused him to shimmer and almost look as if he were dancing in the middle of the corridor. Draco didn't step back from him, but it took some effort.

"Because there'll be too much magic around," Harry said simply. "Too much power." He smirked at Draco, and suddenly he looked more like the schoolboy of Hogwarts, plotting to get Draco in trouble. "Ever take a butterfly net to go hunting a dragon? That's what it'll be like."

Draco snorted despite himself, and shook his head. "So confident that you'll be able to do exactly as you like, and escape exactly as you like?"

"Yes, I am."

Well. Behind that voice lay unshakable confidence, and Draco couldn't blame him. He could caution and advise and warn, but he knew that it was up to Harry to handle what would happen when they went to Clearwater. And not only because of his magic.

Strangely, for someone who had come into the revolution determined to make things happen instead of waiting around for them, Draco was okay with that. Harry would do his best to protect him, and that was all Draco could hope for.

He leaned up and kissed Harry, and Harry kissed him back, hands shaping and cradling his head with a gentleness that made Draco shiver. _Knowing _Harry could hurt him if he wished, but didn't want to right now, only made this all the more exciting for him.

_I suspect that won't hold true for anyone else. But then, they can go fuck themselves anyway._

* * *

_Letter from an unknown source, sent to Minister Clearwater:_

_ Minister, what are you doing? You ought to know that a simple surrender will not work. The revolutionaries are too cunning, too experienced, for that, and Potter is too mad. You cannot trust them. But yet you march open-eyed into the trap, and will only wail when it closes on you._

_ You cannot expect our help if you do nothing to prove yourself worthy of it._

* * *

"I don't believe that you're really like this."

Hermione kept her head down, her eyes fastened on the parchment in front of her, and continued writing. Someone under the Imperius Curse wouldn't have to respond to Desang's mocking words, she knew. After all, what could someone under the Imperius Curse know about the context of Desang's words? Nothing. She would do what she was told, but comments that were not direct orders existed somewhere outside her world, intended for other people.

"Are you _listening_ to me? Hermione."

Hermione looked up and fastened her idiot's smile on. "I always am, Auror," she chirped. She had adopted the title because it made sense that someone rendered subservient by the Imperius Curse would choose the highest title she could, instead of the Auror's first or last name. "What did you want me to listen to?"

Desang didn't respond at once. She had a desk on the other side of Hermione's office, where she sat most of the time, her legs crossed over one another and her feet on the desktop, and watched Hermione work. Hermione resented her laziness more than anything else she had done so far, but of course had been careful not to show it.

She stared at Desang, and Desang stared back.

"You are not the one in this office who is essential to the Minister," Desang breathed. "She thinks you are. She thinks that she needs to retain you to spin stories for the press and make it seem as though one of Potter's best friends really supports _her_. But I figured it out." She began to bounce her wand on her palm, and gave Hermione a lazy smile. "They do say that resistance to certain spells is something that can be learned. If Potter is immune to the Imperius Curse, or can throw it off, who's to say that he didn't teach his friends to do the same thing?"

Hermione didn't let a muscle move on her face, or blink her bright, blank eyes. She was waiting for an order, and nothing in the lecture Desang had just given her contained an order. But beneath the desk, she put her hand on her wand.

"Of course, she would deny it," Desang whispered, leaning forwards over the desk. Hermione barely kept herself from leaning forwards in return. That wasn't something someone under the Curse would do; she would just keep her ears tuned for her master's words, and be expected to hear them no matter how low her voice sank. "She would want to think that she could not be fooled, and that she had really chained and bridled you. But neither of us is the Minister, and neither of us has any concern for her pride." She paused, and her smile seemed to slash across half her face. "Do we?" she whispered.

Hermione said nothing, still bright, still blank. There was a voice in the back of her mind screaming, _Oh, shit!_ But it was something separate from her, defined, the way the pocket in the back of her mind had been separate and defined from the obedient rest of her when she was really under the curse. Her hand tightened on her wand.

"I wish you would answer me," Desang said with a weary sigh, and rose to let her feet drop to the floor with a solid-sounding _clop_. "I know you can understand me, and it would be pleasant to have someone agree with me about what a fool Clearwater is, to think that she can rule the wizarding world."

_Before I kill that person. _Hermione could hear the addition, and wondered why Desang expected that she wouldn't be able to, or just whether Desang expected to kill her before she could make a move.

"Such a fool, to think that Potter would bow his neck and accept the yoke," Desang whispered, moving closer. "And a fool to think that she can kill him. _I _know his destiny, from reading it in the book I stole. He is going to rise in a blaze of glory and leave this poor, lost little world behind, bereft of his presence. And I am going to make sure that I get revenge on the people who have treated me poorly. The Minister. The other Aurors, who believed the Minister over me when they should have." Her smile warmed and deepened. "You."

_She's acting stupid. _If she really thought that Hermione was free of the Imperius Curse, she should have known that this rambling monologue would warn her. If she thought Hermione a slave, then she should know that she wouldn't get anything she wanted out of making this speech, unless she ordered Hermione to fight her.

Meanwhile, she was still too far out of range for most of the spells that Hermione knew to disable her. She remained still, and Desang came closer and closer. She was shaking slightly, Hermione saw. Well, that made sense. And it made her speech make sense, too. She was too overwhelmed by the desire for revenge to consider consequences right now. She wanted Hermione to kneel at her feet and beg for mercy, and that wouldn't work if Hermione was a slave _or _if Desang attacked without warning.

"You can speak to me, if you want," Desang said, and spun up her wand, holding it calmly and openly in one hand. She seemed to assume she would be faster than anything Hermione tried. Well, why not? She had been an Auror, and she knew Hermione only as a Ministry functionary. She probably thought that Hermione was strong at lies and deception, for impersonating her and somehow throwing off the Imperius Curse, but not at ordinary battle.

And she might be right. Hermione made no motion to wipe her sweaty palms off on her skirt, but it was hard.

"I prefer a fair fight." Desang came to a stop in front of her, nodding and smiling. "Something where _you_ don't strike at me and my reputation from the shadows, and where _I _don't put a curse in the middle of your back to knock you down, some dark night in an alley. Something where we can be equals."

Hermione knew she would have only one chance. Either Desang's need to provoke her or lingering uncertainty about whether Hermione was under the Curse had protected Hermione so far. That protection would soon fall.

She needed Desang a little closer, though, because the spell she had in mind relied on touching the other woman with her wand. She let her mouth fall open and her eyes widen, drawing in a breath as though she was about to speak. Desang, probably because she couldn't help herself, swayed in a little nearer. Her grip on the wand looked as if it was tight to the point of pain, and she was caught somewhere between rage and delight.

Hermione darted her hand out, jabbing Desang in the arm. Desang recoiled, but in a way that meant she was raising her wand to strike at Hermione instead of retreating. That was good enough for the spell. Hermione screamed it before she could start thinking of all the political considerations and change her mind. "_Conquiesco!_"

The magic left her like a bolt of lightning going in reverse, and Hermione had one crazy moment to think that this might be what it was like to be a stormcloud, releasing its weather over the land. Then Desang's head flew back, and her arms shot out from her sides and shook uncontrollably. A thin line of blood ran from the corner of her mouth, where she'd probably bitten her tongue. Then she collapsed.

Hermione tucked her wand away and snatched some of the files she'd been working on from her desk, less because they would be useful to Harry and the revolution than because they would give her some cover when she was walking through the corridors. Harry knew as much as he needed to. They had their plans in place. But Hermione fleeing before that moment had arrived had never been part of the plan, which meant that she had to get out of there as soon as possible. If anyone stopped her on the way, she had the strong feeling that she would never see the sunlight and the real world again.

Her skin felt hot and cold by turns. The electricity of the spell was meant to make someone "quiet," hence the incantation, but sometimes it could be strong enough to kill the victim instead of knock them unconscious. Hermione didn't know if she'd killed Desang or not, and she couldn't bring herself to check.

She nudged the door open with one hip, shifted the stack of files in her arms, and, for the last time, fixed that bright, blank idiot's smile on her face. Then she began to walk, her steps falling lightly and regularly on the carpeted floors.

* * *

_From the private diary of Minister Gillian Clearwater: _

_When I was able to spend some time tracking them down, the source of the letters sent to me turned out to be absurdly easy to identify. Two Aurors vanished soon after the hunt for Potter began, Taliesin Graywood and Jennifer Morgan. They stole artifacts from the Department of Mysteries, experimental weapons. Desang's later thefts and the way that she also sent me mysterious letters convinced me that the shadows were full of enemies, that I could trust no one, and that I might have one group after me, or three, or innumerable organizations devoted to destroying the only person with the wizarding world's welfare at heart._

_ Now I know where the messages came from, and the Unspeakables have shared tracking spells that might mean I can follow Graywood and Morgan's next letter back to their location. Now I can rest easily._

* * *

Harry woke to hammering on his door that night, and took a moment to reach behind him and check that Draco lay in his bed before he responded. The flame that represented Draco's heartbeat shone as steadily as before, but it had in the moments right before Pedlar captured him, too.

Harry then checked the subtle strings of flame that showed the health of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy if one knew how to read them. They still quivered and throbbed with dull, low-orange flickers of what Harry thought was resentment. He shrugged. They were alive and not in immediate danger. He didn't think he could give much more to Draco, even if Draco sometimes acted as though he had promised that.

He rose, put on a dress robe, and called a little flame into his palm before he opened the door.

He had to dismiss it again quickly, because Hermione fell into his arms, crying and laughing, and Ron was behind her, trying to hug them both at the same time and whooping in a way that reminded Harry of Hogwarts.

For the moment, Harry was too overwhelmed to question what Hermione was doing there. He hugged her, and shut his eyes, and laid his head on hers. Hermione sniffled and clung harder. Harry stroked her back and murmured reassurances, ignoring the sleepy stirring in the bed behind him. He was relatively sure Draco would understand, and if not, Harry knew the right way to fuck to be sure that he calmed down.

"What are you doing here?" he whispered, when he was sure that she could take note of something other than the sobs bubbling up in her throat.

Hermione swallowed, wiped her face, and stepped away from him, smiling ruefully at the tears she'd left on his clothes. "Desang is working with the Minister," she said. "She'd fled for a while, and there was something about a book of prophecies that she turned over to the Minister. I think she was the one who first realized that there was more than one prophecy about you. She knows that I impersonated her when I retrieved that evidence about necromancy. She would have killed me, because she didn't believe that I was really under the Imperius Curse. I hit her with lightning instead and ran here."

Harry nodded to her and looked over his shoulder as he heard a stronger stirring noise from the bed. Draco sat up with the sheets wrapped around him, like a nervous virgin. Well, he might be, at least where Harry's friends were concerned. Without turning around, Harry could predict the complex but fleeting emotions that would pass over their faces and then get buried again.

He raised one eyebrow at Draco, asking without words if Draco wanted him to close the door and stand out in the corridor with Ron and Hermione. Draco nodded to him, the motion so tense that Harry smiled despite himself. He shut the door between them and faced Hermione again.

"How much do you think this will affect our plans to do with Clearwater?" he asked.

Hermione shook her head. "It would depend on whether I killed Desang or not. I didn't stop and check," she added, suddenly fretful. "I should have stopped and checked."

"It's okay," Harry said, and rubbed her arms up and down. "I don't think it matters. When Clearwater knows that you're gone, there'll be a limited number of deductions she can make, and she'll probably reach the correct one."

"I know," Hermione said, and she already sounded calmer. Harry was glad to hear that. He really didn't know what he would have done if Hermione had a breakdown. It seemed incredible that she hadn't had one so far, but if she had her composure back for real rather than simply cracking under the weight of her situation, then he would go with it. "As for the effect it'll have…no, I don't think so. Clearwater told me almost nothing about what she planned to do. Most of our information on that score came from hints that Smithson heard or Raggleworth was able to collect. She might decide that I've passed information to you, maybe the prophecy, but she knows that the surrender she's arranged with that delegation of revolutionaries was in all the papers. I think it'll upset and frighten her, but there's no way she can know the whole truth and rework her plans to wreck ours, when she doesn't know what ours are." She paused, and suddenly her eyes were wide. "Unless there's a traitor somewhere in the revolution, of course."

Harry didn't know if she meant to do it, but she looked at the door of his rooms. Harry had to kill those suspicions immediately, so he shook his head, quietly, commandingly. "Draco is no traitor," he said.

"Are you sure? The prophecy said—"

"If Draco was the traitor," Harry said, still as quietly, "there's no way that he could hide it from me. I have a flame that's linked to his heartbeat. It would start quivering and throbbing harder when he's around me. I don't think Draco could be as relaxed about something like that when he's with me, given that he's had ample opportunity to see how strong my magic is."

Hermione bit her lip, then nodded. "All right."

She sounded less than enthusiastic, and Ron was behind her with his eyes shadowed, too, but that would have to do. Harry ignored them both and turned a little so that he could look over his shoulder. Yes, the flame was still, sinking towards embers, which meant Draco had returned to sleep. If he had seen Hermione and was a traitor, he would have to suspect what she had come here for, and would probably be panicking. Draco had never been very good at hiding his emotions, Harry thought, given the way he would rage at Hogwarts, even if his father had tried to teach him.

"What are we going to do now?" Ron asked.

Harry looked at his hand on Hermione's shoulder, and smiled. "Go to our respective beds," he said, giving them a little shove of warm wind that made them both sway in place. "We're tired, and you two haven't been together in months."

"Harry," Hermione began in a repressive tone, although her cheeks were flushed.

Harry winked at her. "I get irritable when Draco won't spend the night with me," he said. "I can only imagine how much worse it is for you."

That made them both blush, but at least it also made them leave, Ron nearly dragging Hermione away, probably so that he wouldn't have to listen to any more of that. Harry turned and went back inside to his own bed.

The flame quickened as he neared it, and Draco lifted his head and opened his eyes. He tried, but he couldn't quite hide the bitter curl to his mouth.

"So, did they turn you against me?" he asked, stretching one arm out across the pillows and turning his head away.

"Of course not," Harry said, and climbed atop him, and kissed him.

Draco stirred and strained against him, mostly in surprise. Harry kissed him again, and he didn't try to get away, instead opening his arms and legs to receive Harry.

As it happened, Harry thought he might know the true meaning behind that line in the prophecy that seemed to promise a traitor.

_Not tonight. _He kissed Draco again, and the thoughts vanished into gathering warmth and flicking fire.


	45. As the Last Day Dawns

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Forty-Five—As the Last Day Dawns_

Harry left the manor deliberately that afternoon, although he knew several people—including Draco—would have been happier if he stayed inside. He had something to do that he didn't want anyone else witnessing. They would be tiresome about it, and he had had enough of tiresome.

Ron and Hermione might have been happier, too, but since they were still inside Ron's room with the door locked, Harry really couldn't ask them.

He wrapped a thin shield of fire around him that turned light aside and paced towards the edge of the treeline. The burned ground where he had called the dragons smoldered in response to his magic, but Harry ignored it. The only requirement he had for _this _little calling-out was privacy. In fact, doing it too near the burned ground would probably be counterproductive, since it would give the lightning stag ideas.

Where a large tree threw its shadow across the grass, Harry halted. For a few seconds, he waited, listening to the breeze through the branches in front of him. He would call if he had to, but he was curious whether the lightning stag would come to him if he gave it enough patience.

It seemed so. The air in front of him flickered, and then the stag was trotting towards him, antlers flicking back and forth between one moment and the next as though a careless student was incompetently Vanishing them. The rest of the stag's body was solid, though. Harry wondered what that meant, and then put it aside. He had enough trouble understanding the stag's reactions that were somewhat like a human's, never mind the signs it made that were probably peculiar to it.

He adjusted the shield of fire as it came nearer, and wrapped it close and tight around his face, like a mask. He half-wondered whether this would work; the magic came from the prophecy in the first place, or was connected to it in some weird way, and maybe that meant it couldn't fool it. But if that was the case, then Harry would just have to lie with his voice and make it the most convincing lie he'd ever told.

Somehow, he didn't think he'd have much trouble with that.

The stag came to a stop in front of him, all but rocking on its hooves, and stared at him doubtfully. Harry smiled with all his teeth and inclined his head. "I've decided," he said, and didn't have to work hard to make his voice aggressive, "that you were right."

The stag's eyes widened, and the roads were in them again, bright and dark, both leading into the distance. Its ears pointed straight at him, and after a moment, it gave a hesitant scrape with its hoof along the ground, as though questioning whether he was telling the truth.

Harry snorted. "Yes, I am." He wasn't, of course, it was the farthest thing from the truth, but he was striving to make it so in his mind, and he had no one with him at the moment to betray his lie by little unconscious signals. "It's not—it's harder and harder, living here, knowing I could obliterate anyone at any time just by opening my hand."

That part was the perfect truth. He had seen the way Draco looked at him, with awe Harry knew he would never have deserved if Draco hadn't seen him destroy Pedlar with his fire. He had seen the other revolutionaries slinking around him, their heads bowed, their bodies shuddering as though they were flags being blown by the wind he brought with him. The fire inside him whispered uses for itself, and Harry knew that he could create far more than the Gryffindor common room that he had shown to Ron.

Or destroy far more.

Harry shook his head. He was storing up his magic for the massive, complicated explosion that would need to come out of the moments when George's machine was ready. The explosion that would need all his magic, or it would fail.

He smiled faintly at the terrible pun, and then noticed the stag was staring at him again, ears flattened as if it knew that he was trying to put it off.

Harry shrugged at it. "I'm still trying to decide if I want to leave the way you want me to, though. The lightning road that takes me far away from my friends and anyone else I could ever be with—why would I _want _to choose that? I've been lonely most of my life. Now that I finally have a lover and my friends with me and a cause worth fighting for, you want me to abandon all of them?"

The stag reared up and put its hooves on his shoulders, the way it had once before. Harry exhaled slowly and met its eyes. He wasn't entirely without fear, but he didn't think the stag would _prefer _to harm him instead of educating him.

The roads grew closer and closer, until Harry could see only them, and not even the iris or pupil of the stag's eyes anymore. The dark road only led to more darkness, he saw. Embers and cinders and regret. Take that road, and he would find everything burned away and no ability to recover it.

The lightning road led into the future and _showed _him the future. There were palaces and towers of light waiting for him there, glittering landscapes that made Harry's breath come short. He saw trees of colors he had never imagined, in the middle of gardens that burned with steady flame. He saw himself plucking fruit from the trees, and surrounded by a crowd of animals and people, who talked with him. He couldn't hear their words, but the stag was telling him that he would never lack for company.

The scene changed, and he was in a blurred otherworld, swimming beneath the water. There were more people, and more visions of light, more new colors and foods and wonders. And the stag's eyes went on multiplying them, until Harry had lost track of the places that he might go by walking the lightning road.

"But will I ever see anyone familiar?" he asked, when he could get his breath back and turn his head a little to the side, so he was no longer looking the stag straight in the eyes. "That's the answer to the question I want. I might almost be willing to die, if I could get to see my parents again." Or that would have been the case, before he found Draco, and came up with the plan that should see them all safe. "But it doesn't look like I'll ever cross to where _they _are. Am I ever going to see them? Or would I ever see any of my friends again, if I went with you?"

The stag paused, staring at him. Harry raised his eyebrows and stared back. He didn't think it was a hard question.

The stag sprang away and began to pace in a circle, scraping a hoof up and down the grass. Harry nodded. It was the answer to his question that he had suspected, but had almost hoped wasn't true, because it made his lie all the harder.

"That's the truth," he said. "I'll never see anyone I know again, and I don't have the choice about when I leave one of those particular worlds to go to another one, do I? No choice." That was why he had made the decision he had—not the one where he had burned Minister Duplais, because that wasn't a choice at all so much as a bad-tempered lashing-out, but the one where he had decided to resist fate. He had made enough decisions under the influence of a prophecy. His choices from now on might be restricted by the past and his magic, but he would still make them.

The stag glanced at him, then away. Harry caught the disgruntled look in its eyes, and smiled a little. "I think you would prefer it if I came along willingly and acted excited about all the pretty things you can show me," he said.

The stag's small tail swished.

Harry sighed. "As awful as I think that sounds," he said. "Constantly traveling. Not being able to see anyone I know and love ever again." He shook his head. "I think that's what it has to be. I don't have any _choice_." There was no need to fake the bitterness he loaded his voice with when he said that.

The stag lifted its head, and cautious, hopeful eyes fixed on him. Harry smiled sourly when he saw that. Of course that would happen. The stag was incapable of understanding that an acceptance like the one Harry was feigning was a cause for bitterness. It was just happy he was finally doing what it wanted him to.

"I wasn't meant for this world," Harry said. "Not because I'm too good for it, but simply because that's not the way I'm—built." And he wanted to spit when he said _those _words, but again, that would only further convince the stag they were true. "I'll go with you. I'll take the bloody lightning road. I probably won't be very happy, but I'll do what the prophecy says I should, what the _future _says I should."

The stag bent down on its forelegs in front of him, and its ears twitched back and forth as though scooping sound from the air. Then it rose up and looked at him, long and earnestly, as if to say that he didn't know how happy he had made it.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Get out of my sight," he said, not having to pretend to the sulkiness in his voice as he turned his head away. "I don't want to talk to you anymore right now."

The stag's hoof scraped gently against his leg, and then it jumped into the air and flew away like a comet in reverse. Harry waited a few moments, but it didn't return. He didn't know for _sure _that it would have if it suspected something, but he thought so. It seemed to have accepted his story because that story worked so well with what it expected of him.

Harry snorted a little as he walked back to the manor. If it was that easy to lie and convince a celestial stag of his trustworthiness, perhaps he should have done the same thing with the members of the revolution who were angry at him for not being the hero they wanted.

Then he saw the members of the revolution in his head again, and smiled sourly. He doubted he could have done anything they approved of, by this late in the game.

* * *

_From the private diary of Minister Gillian Clearwater:_

_ There. Now Graywood and Morgan have been captured, and the artifacts they stole returned to the possession of the Unspeakables. There is no one left to send me vague, threatening letters and declare that they will do me harm unless they are satisfied._

_ There are undoubtedly other enemies out there, and they will emerge once Potter is defeated and they feel they can claim my attention. But it is entirely possible that I will retire once this immediate crisis is past. I cannot help but feel that it is my duty to remain in office until it's over, since I was the Minister who presided over Potter's small coterie turning into a ragtag revolution. But someone else can take up the work, and the threats, and the duties, and the pleasures (those are a small group) of the office once I've done my duty to the wizarding world._

_ I'm looking forward to having some peace for once._

* * *

A few days' observation of the revolution was enough time to convince Hermione that, while Harry might still be hovering on the edge of madness and he certainly hadn't been a good leader, there was nothing he could have done now to salvage the situation. Crawling at their feet and kissing them wouldn't be good enough; neither would bringing in a victory. They had chosen their side, and the ones who didn't feel like surrendering to Minister Clearwater certainly never said so.

There were the ones like Veronica Dover who were calm and happy in the thought that they would go home after the surrender to the Ministry, and be able to live their own lives. (Why they thought that Clearwater or someone else wouldn't take revenge on them, Hermione didn't know. Perhaps they thought the officials and the papers would be satisfied with crucifying a hero, and leave them alone). They still sometimes talked about justice for Muggleborns, but not loudly, and they welcomed Hermione among them the way bees would welcome a wasp. They found some excuse to shut up or leave each time she opened her mouth, so she couldn't really learn if anyone among them thought they were being unfair.

There were some people who had followed Pedlar and were still upset about her dreadful death. Hermione used the machinery of wide-eyed innocence to fool them; since she hadn't been on the spot when Pedlar died, it was easy to pretend curiosity about exactly what it had been like.

A young woman named Renee Skinner was perfectly happy to talk to her about that, and shook her head again and again as she and Hermione sat in the manor's library. "I could have told her that she shouldn't challenge him," she whispered. "But she had that wild impatience some people have when they know that what they're going to do is right and they won't listen to _you_. And he still had no right to kill her."

_The people I know who behave with that sort of impatience are all eleven or twelve years old, _Hermione thought, but made sure to keep the thought out of her eyes as she nodded and murmured and encouraged Skinner to talk. She did, staring out the window that looked towards the forest and twirling a blonde curl moodily around her finger.

"I want to talk about this to _someone_," she said. "But everyone else seems to have forgotten that Pedlar ever existed."

Hermione nodded again. Something else that made her doubt Skinner's sincerity was her tendency to call Pedlar by her surname all the time, but, well, Hermione still had no real idea how close they had been. Skinner kept _that _information as secret as she could. "Do you think that Potter regrets killing her?"

Skinner snorted. "Hardly. Or he would have shown some sign of it before this. He didn't even show any remorse for branding her." She looked at Hermione sideways. "Are you sure that you want to listen to this? I know you're his friend, or you used to be, and that means you won't want to hear bad things about him."

Hermione leaned back in her chair and let her eyebrows rise a little. "I've spent hours and hours down the years fighting my political enemies and watching the papers smear me when they can," she said, and gave Skinner a chill little smile. "I'm used to bearing unpleasant news. Don't think that I would have asked if I didn't want to hear the answer."

Skinner spent a little longer staring at her, but Hermione had plenty of practice in maintaining masks of all sorts by now, and spying among the revolutionaries was different from spying in the Ministry. She knew that she could go back to Ron's arms and bed at the end of the day and receive his comfort.

Rather _enthusiastic _comfort, come to think of that, Hermione remembered, and bit her lip to hide her blush.

"Are you listening to me?"

That was Skinner, Hermione's punishment for forgetting where she was even for a moment. She sat up and tried to pin a serious expression on her face, nodding. "Of course," she murmured. "You _will _excuse me, I hope! I simply relapse into consideration of what my life is like now that I don't have to worry about dealing with the Ministry, and how different my future looks now than it did a week ago, and I forget the present."

After a few minutes of staring at her, Skinner nodded. "Well. I think that Potter isn't mad. He's worse. He was thoughtless of her comfort and pride when he branded Pedlar, but by the time he killed her, he knew exactly what he was doing. He let her have the duel that she wanted—" Skinner's voice broke. She spent a moment clearing her throat, and then continued, the bitterness as pronounced now as salt in some of the soup Hermione was eating around here. "And he knew that she would lose it. But she went to her death convinced it would be a glorious victory, and everyone would finally see that she was right. Yes, he's worse than mad. He's cruel."

Hermione wished she could feel sure about denying that, too. But watching Harry slide through the manor like a shark through a school of minnows made her hesitate, and wonder. He could have taken _someone _into his confidence, and explained that he had a plan to handle the Minister and the surrender. But he hadn't. He had let everyone stir and sit and wonder, and while Ron had taken over the leadership and issued all the commands, Harry didn't retire quietly into the background the way he should have. He went on pushing and putting himself out there, and it had to be hard for Ron. He never complained, but Hermione had seen the lines setting around the corners of his mouth.

"Granger?"

Hermione blinked, came back to herself again, and didn't correct Skinner, who after all wasn't a close friend and couldn't be expected to care about her married name. "Thank you," she said. "You've been helpful."

When it was too late to reconsider, Skinner started to fidget in her chair, her hands clenched in front of her. "You won't tell him?"

"Harry?" Hermione snorted. "No. I asked you to tell me. And I suspect that he already knows what everyone thinks, anyway. His magic is powerful enough to let him find that out."

Skinner stared at her. "How?" she demanded. "I thought his magic was only good for burning things."

"And finding things, and creating things, and summoning dragons," Hermione pointed out, and stood. "You should probably worry more about what he's going to do next, not what he already knows."

Skinner frowned. "I thought you might be different from him," she said quietly. "I thought you might actually care about what we're suffering because of him. And instead, you speak as though you were never more than a curious friend who had already decided to take his side."

Hermione gave her a thin smile. "I'm his friend, yes. But I wanted to know how you regarded him, and if he had been crazy in some way that I didn't know about, then I would have been concerned. Instead, though, you speak as though he can never do anything right in your eyes, and you tell me stories I knew already. I knew that before I came here, actually." She sighed. "You need new stories, or you need to reconsider what his magic can do and why it frightens you so much—although I know you won't."

"You don't know anything about me," Skinner said, shoving her chair back from the table hard enough that the table knocked against Hermione's knees.

"And _you_ don't know anything about _him_," Hermione took some pleasure in saying, offering Skinner another thin smile before she walked away.

Her legs were shaking, her hands were shaking, and she had to pause along the way to duck into a small alcove, lean against the wall, and clear her head. She would have to write a message to her allies soon, telling them to put Clearwater off as long as possible, and explaining what had happened. With the way that Raggleworth and Smithson tore things to pieces, she would have to be at her brightest and sharpest to fend them off.

And she knew that these thoughts weren't new. Harry had dealt with them for months now, and they were the reason he had turned the revolution over to Ron and kept his plans private (well, that and because he wanted to avoid the prophecy's scrutiny). Why was this affecting her so strongly _now_, when they were so near to finishing the revolution and achieving what they wanted?

_Maybe because I have something else to concentrate on rather than just fooling Clearwater and meeting with my allies now._

Hermione straightened up and nodded. That was true. She didn't have to spend as much time thinking about survival, so her thoughts were free to spread out and find new things to occupy them. Let enough weeks pass, and she would become the person she had been again, worrying about the laws and customs and traditions of the wizarding world more than she did the fleeting things that occupied her time now.

_If we all survive what Harry has planned._

* * *

Draco stayed awake that night to watch Potter sleep.

_Harry. You can call him Harry. What else would you call him? _

Draco swallowed, and continued watching. He didn't get to do this often. Harry was so paranoid about his safety that he kept his own eyes open most of the time, watching Draco, or watching the flame that Draco knew represented his heartbeat, and which he had seen only once or twice. Harry wanted to keep it hidden in case someone tried to steal it, or crush it, or some such silly thing.

It was strange, Draco thought, to watch Harry shifting in his sleep, his lips occasionally opening and letting out another meaningless garble of words, and his chest rising and falling, and his hands reaching out and grasping, and know that this man was the one he had fallen in love with.

Hell, it was strange to look at someone who wasn't his parents, or himself in a mirror, and know that he was in love with them at _all_.

Draco shut his eyes and leaned forwards, coming down with his head on Harry's chest. Even that didn't wake him up. Draco thought dealing with the stress of the coming surrender had probably made Harry sleep more deeply than normal. He just turned his head to the side, opened his lips so he could sigh, and went even more strongly into sleep. Draco reached down and let his hand hover near Harry's cheek, cupping it in midair.

Harry opened his eyes and turned his head. His lips made a small kissing sound an inch from Draco's palm. Draco smiled at him and tried not to regret that he hadn't been able to make Harry stay asleep longer.

"What is it?" Harry murmured. "Are we going to be swamped by revolutionaries intent on forcing the surrender early?"

Draco shook his head, and closed his eyes against the wave of love—what else could it be but love, uncomfortable and strong and pervasive?—that tried to overwhelm him. "No," he said softly. "I like watching you sleep, that's all."

Harry blinked at him, and for a few moments Draco thought he was going to say something about vulnerability. Instead, he snapped his fingers, and for a moment tendrils of fire winked around his hands and arms. Draco knew the flames were doing something, but he couldn't figure it out.

Then the flames dived into Harry's mouth and nose, and sent up a small cloud of smoke. That cleared, and Draco found himself gazing on Harry's face.

He was asleep once more. He had somehow used his magic to send himself to sleep, although Draco didn't know how fire magic could accomplish that.

Draco reached out and smoothed the sheet down Harry's chest, making it lie flat. His fingers were trembling. Then he curled up beside Harry and let his head and hands rest on his chest, both at the same time.

Yes, it was love.

* * *

_From the private diary of Minister Gillian Clearwater:_

_ Granger was lying. All along, it was a trap. Desang told me about her last moments with Granger, and—_

_ We will destroy them. I've promised myself that. And Potter needs to be put down for the good of the wizarding world._

_ But I am going to _destroy _Hermione._


	46. The Surrender

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Forty-Six—The Surrender_

"It's ready."

George had expected Harry's eyes to light up more when he heard that, but instead, he simply smiled and nodded. As if he always knew that they'd finish it in time, George thought, and wondered whether he should shake Harry's hand for the confidence or punch him.

_Why not do both? _Fred whispered in the back of his head. _This might be the last time you'll see him long enough to do either._

George ignored that, because lately Fred's suggestions had more and more bitterness behind them. He watched instead as Harry reached out and laid a hand on the nearest metal ring, the one that sprang from the platform and leaned left. A sharp tang of magic sprang up around him, but it made George squint; he couldn't see it as clearly as he could every time before, when Harry glowed. This was like the stag's light, clear and shadowless and quick, but gone before George could be sure if it was identical.

"That one works," Harry said, his voice jolting in the silence, and then he moved on to the central loop and laid his hand there.

Something seemed to shudder and scream. George had actually leaped and turned around with his wand out before he realized it was coming from in front of him. The sound was deafening and ignored the ordinary laws of echoes, coming equally well from in front and in back.

"I thought so."

George shook his head. "What's that mean?" He was trying to imagine the creature of the future that could scream like that, and whether Harry would want to face it. He couldn't imagine. His body was still one locked, streaming, rippling shudder, trying to get over the instinctive fear and revulsion he'd felt.

"It's the sound my magic is going to make," Harry said, and his voice was light and so were his eyes, so gentle and so dark that George shuddered. "But that can't be helped, I'm afraid."

He moved on to the third loop, and George tried to brace himself while knowing that he couldn't have braced himself for the light or the scream before he saw or heard them. But Harry studied the third loop for so long that George couldn't help himself, even though he'd meant to stay silent. "What is it?" he demanded. "Is something out of place?"

"No," Harry said. "But I'm almost afraid to see what this manifestation is going to be." Before George, blinking, could understand or accept what he'd said, Harry's hand made contact with the metal.

This time, what came was a scent. And George thought when he first smelled it that it was putrid, but he realized, a moment later, that it wasn't. It was simply _strong_, strong enough to make him back up and put one cautious hand to his nose. Harry stood next to the loop, and stared up at it with wide eyes, and went on stroking the metal with one steady hand.

"It's marvelous, George," he said. "You've outdone yourselves." And he gave a smile that showed them, even if the word hadn't done so, that he hadn't forgotten Fred.

George found himself standing tall, nodding. He had built the machine without knowing what it did. He had made it perfect enough that Harry, who seemed mostly involved in his own drama these days, would compliment him.

_He complimented _us, _you berk._

And of course, since Harry hadn't forgotten Fred, it meant George had to do so, even if it was only for a second. He found himself rolling his eyes and smiling. Then he reached out and clapped his hand on Harry's shoulder. Harry stared at him as though he didn't know what was coming next, a smile or a punch.

"You did the right thing," Harry said quietly. "You know that, don't you? This way, we have a chance of survival."

"But not as a free revolution," George said. "We know you've given that idea up. We know you can't lead us to victory, and if someone thinks you're still trying to resist Clearwater, he's an idiot."

Harry went still and stared at him. Then he smiled, and this expression seemed to tremble up from within his body and overrun his face like a small pool flooding. "Yeah."

George sighed and dropped his hand. "So what are you going to do? Are you sure that you can't tell us? You ought to know only Malfoy is more loyal to you. And I don't even know if Ron is, not as much." He had sometimes seen their little brother watching Harry with an expression in his eyes that made both of them uneasy, though Fred more. "Can't you tell us?"

"It's an issue of who might overhear," Harry said, and his smile this time was gentle in a way that George hadn't seen in a long time, although Fred claimed to remember it. "I don't know how to ward a conversation so that it escapes the notice of a paranoid prophecy, do you?"

George had to shake his head.

"Exactly." Harry took a sharp breath and tilted his head forwards. His hair fell around his face. George hadn't realized he kept it so long, and silently wondered when the last time was that he'd cut it, a question Fred couldn't answer either. "Well." Harry turned and gestured, and the fire writhed out of him and picked up the machine, cradling it on a glowing river of what looked like airy magma, turning over and over again like wheels. "I'll take this with me and hide it. Make sure you're there at the surrender, though. I might still need your help."

"We wouldn't miss it for the world, mate," George said, and although Fred murmured a caution in the back of his head, he knew it was equally true for the both of them.

Harry smiled at him in gratitude and closed the door behind him and the machine.

* * *

The surrender had everyone there.

Hermione stood at Ron's side and tried not to flinch as she felt the gazes cross her, wondering and damning and too _curious _for her to feel comfortable. She knew that just about everyone in the revolution had to know that she'd fled to join them now, she had asked too many questions and been involved in too many disputes for it to be otherwise, but she still felt exposed in front of everyone.

Which was ridiculous. Hermione tried to ignore it by lifting her head and studying the scene in front of her.

They had agreed to meet on a hill near Hogsmeade, surrounded by wards that meant no Muggles would accidentally stumble on them. The hill dipped down on both sides to form a shallow depression in the ground, and Hermione was vaguely glad it hadn't rained last night, or both the Ministry delegation and the revolutionary delegation would have been standing in enormous puddles. The whole of those who still followed Harry were there, while most of the people with Minister Clearwater seemed like high-ranking Ministry officials, and there weren't many of those. Hermione did see a big figure in dark robes by Clearwater's side, and found herself grinning before she thought about it. That would be Smithson. Too bad that Clearwater would never know what happened when he turned on her.

If he did.

Hermione bit her lip, hard, and told herself to stop thinking about things like that. There was plenty else to watch and listen, if she wanted something to take her mind off everything that could possibly go wrong.

Everyone, it seemed, had brought flags and banners, probably more for the way they looked than because anyone thought they would seriously become lost in the campgrounds, or stay here for long. The Minister's people had huge tents, of the kind that Hermione had only seen before at the Quidditch World Cup, and their colors were green and red and blue. The revolutionaries had drab banners with various messages on them in white and black and brown. Mostly white. The color of surrender was everywhere today.

Except by Harry.

Hermione had been trying to avoid looking in that direction, because it made her anxious when she did, but now her gaze caught there and she couldn't turn away. By mutual agreement, everyone was supposed to stay off the hill until the moment when Minister Clearwater and a few carefully-chosen people came in to meet with Veronica Dover and Ron. That would be the moment when everyone shook hands and pretended to believe—well, Dover probably _did _believe it—that everything would go back to normal.

But Harry was on the hill, of course, because since when had Harry listened to the will of the people who followed him?

He had one hand raised in front of his face, shading his eyes as he squinted at something. Hermione followed the line of his gaze, but wasn't sure what he would be looking at. Maybe the congregation of reporters on the Minister's side, behind her people, whose cameras flashed so constantly it made them look like a field of sunflowers bending in the wind.

There was a small cloud of fire beside him, roiling and churning as though someone had put it on a kettle to boil. Hermione reckoned he was keeping it there just in case the Minister tried to assassinate him before the surrender had even begun.

That was the strange part, to her. Did no one else think it odd that Harry had come along but kept a weapon beside him? They seemed to think that he would bow down and surrender to the Minister the minute she walked up to him, but they also talked about how dangerous he was and how they weren't sure that they trusted themselves near him. Hermione had to shake her head over the contradictions.

"Are you all right, love?"

Ron was speaking into her ear; it wasn't the sort of thing he said aloud, or at least not often. Hermione smiled up at him and patted his arm. "Yes," she said. "But keep an eye out. I haven't seen Desang yet, but she might have survived." _I hope she did. _Hermione wasn't keen on thinking of herself as a murderer, no matter how urgent it might have been for her to escape.

Ron immediately leaned forwards, one hand hovering over his wand, though that probably wouldn't be evident to people who were watching them from a distance. He spoke out of the corner of his mouth. "I didn't realize there was a chance of that. I wish you'd told me earlier."

Hermione rolled her eyes and shoved his elbow with hers, hard. Ron stumbled and then turned to gape at her. Hermione caught his eyes and held them. They hadn't had many serious conversations in the few days since she came back. They were too busy apologizing and making love and explaining things.

Hermione wouldn't have had it any other way. But it did mean that moments like this were rather awkward.

"You're welcome to protect me," Hermione told him. "But not if you do it stupidly. Charging into the middle of the surrender because you see her, for example, would be stupid. And she's likely to be there, since the Minister seemed close to her in the few days before I left. Promise me, Ron. Keep me safe, but keep yourself safe, too. I didn't come this far just to lose you again." Her fingers clamped down on his wrist where no one else would see, and she looked into his eyes.

So many memories of those eyes. Bright with passion during their wedding, and panic during their wedding night. Desperate the day that he had chosen to follow Harry and she had chosen to stay as a spy in the Ministry. And more brilliant than anything on the day she had come back to him. She was going to remember that forever.

Hermione just wanted the _chance _to remember him that way forever, rather than blown to pieces by the over-anxious Aurors around the Minister.

Ron studied her for a few moments, brow wrinkled as though he was trying to understand why she wanted this so badly. Hermione opened her mouth to explain again, and then he sighed and leaned forwards, kissing her.

Hermione closed her eyes. She tried to let the kiss melt the world around her, the world that could be merciless and _would _be, unless she steeled herself to face it. She knew the end was coming, although she didn't know precisely what it would be.

Even knowing her allies' plans didn't help, because she had no idea what Clearwater had planned or what Harry would do to disrupt it.

But she could be strong. She only needed a chance to show it.

* * *

Draco watched Harry from the back, and wondered. He especially wondered about the shifting cloud of fire right next to him, the one Harry had created to keep the machine he'd commissioned from the Weasley twins hidden.

But he didn't move towards him. He didn't ask all the questions that burned in his throat, such as the ones about his parents. Harry had promised to protect his parents, to get them to safety somehow. He hadn't said how, and he had left them behind in the manor, when Draco had half-expected an early morning summons to go to their rooms and pull them out. Didn't they have to be here, if Harry was going to save them?

Then he felt the press of warm magic against his shoulders and back—something that it seemed most other people couldn't feel, although he didn't know why—and shivered.

No. Harry could do anything he wanted, from any distance. Draco was coming to believe that, and to accept what it meant that he loved someone so powerful.

Most of the other revolutionaries didn't want to be with him, but the Weasleys had come with Harry, and they afforded him a space. George, the mad one, even gave him supportive glances from time to time, and clapped him on the back. Draco shook his head dazedly when he thought about that.

He couldn't have anticipated rescuing his parents from Azkaban when the Ministry offered this to him. He couldn't have anticipated falling in love with Harry or changing his mind about what he would do and what he _was _doing in the revolution. But he still thought the strangest thing out of all the many that had happened was falling into the kind of friendship that he had with the Weasleys.

"It won't be long now."

Draco jumped at the whisper, and glanced instinctively to the left. But best-friend-Weasley and his Granger stood there, their arms around each other, and looked—well, occupied. No, it came from the mad one, and his eyes were fixed on Harry with a satisfied smile that made Draco swallow.

"What do you mean?" he whispered. "I thought the surrender wasn't scheduled to begin for another hour."

"Oh, _that _one," Weasley said, as if Draco had reminded him of an unpleasant medical procedure he had to go through. "No, that one isn't. But I'm talking about the _important _one."

And his gaze went back to Harry as if it had never been away.

Draco swallowed against the tightness in his throat. _At least someone knows what's supposed to be going on. Because I don't._

He remembered the threefold plan that Harry had explained, or hinted about, to him: safety, illusion, freedom. Or something like that. The terms whirled in his head, and his breath came short as though he was in battle, as though he was in Azkaban again, instead of standing in the sunlight on short grass, with the Minister advancing in a stately fashion towards the hill. Behind her came the Auror guards, and Draco noticed the way Granger drew her shoulders back and the way the best-friend Weasley put an arm around her. They feared the Minister.

Draco's gaze went back to Harry, and he shook his head. "What do you think is going to happen?" he asked the mad Weasley.

"Chaos," Weasley said, and his happy smile didn't do much for Draco's confidence.

_Clearly._ Draco stepped back and shut his eyes, trying to remember the way he had felt just before Harry burst through the door of the storage cupboard where Pedlar was keeping him. Confident, braced, calm. He had known Harry would find him no matter where he was, and keep him safe no matter what happened. That—had to be enough. It had to be important that he had a lover with such strong magic, and someone vowed to him.

Draco's breathing evened out as he thought about it, and when he opened his eyes, it was to find Weasley staring at him as if he thought to draw strength at Draco's side. Draco looked up at Harry, and sent a silent message to him.

_Surprise all of them. End all of this, and never hesitate. I believe in you._

* * *

It was all a dance.

Harry had never been good at dancing. Hermione, and Ginny, and Mrs. Weasley, had told him it was because he didn't listen to the music. Harry had responded irritably that he wasn't tone-deaf, and they had looked at him with pity in their eyes and then whirled away, making the graceful steps and turns he couldn't imitate.

But he knew what they meant, now. There was a difference between hearing and listening, and he had only done the first when it was something as stupid and uninteresting to him as the dance at a Yule Ball. But this was—

This was otherwise. This was different.

The dance was the music all around him, the forces that came together here, now, in this moment, and guided them against each other. He was only vaguely surprised that no one _else _heard it. Or did they hear and discount it? That was natural enough, Harry reckoned. He was sometimes surprised at what other people chose to consider important. Maybe they thought that this wasn't important for them.

But it was important if they wanted to force him to come quietly, which Harry knew was part of their purpose here today.

_Well. Too bad for them._

He smiled at Clearwater, and saw the way she stepped back, one hand reaching out as if she would catch the blow coming from his direction and turn it. Harry smiled at her and turned his head, eyes seeking out the Aurors on the field, and the Ministry officials, and the reporters. Cameras flashed at him, and he called up a warm little wind that blew his hair back from his scar and made sure that some of them would get good pictures.

He might as well. It was the only thing he intended to do for them today.

He leaped lightly down beside the cloud of fire that concealed the machine, and touched it. The cloud puffed and blew away, but since there was a glamour of a table covered with documents woven over it now, it still didn't reveal the exact nature of what he was doing. He did hear a stir and murmur of interest from the people who thought they had come here to witness him bound in chains, though.

_Yes. It's time._

Harry lifted his head and turned it slowly back and forth. He could feel the lightning stag's attention bearing down on him, all the more present for being unmarked right now, and bowed his head in its direction, whichever direction that was, before he tapped the right side of the machine.

The far loop.

It began to glow, and once again he smelled the sweet smell. Harry smiled, and stepped back. He touched the left loop. Again, it glowed, and this time he saw the brilliant light.

And the one in the middle…

Harry fastened his gaze on it, and began to call up his magic. It was like drawing all the air he could command into his lungs. Faster and faster, more and more, and he was diving deep and expanding and rearing up all at the same time. His vision flashed with small black spots. His body burned.

Not that he had anything to fear from burning, not when his magic was fire.

The stag shone into being above him, pawing gently at the air and turning its antlers back and forth as if to defy anyone to take him from it. Harry smiled grimly at it, inclined his head, and then brought a clasped hand down and out. The central loop rang as his magic poured into it.

As his magic divided into three, and the triple loops glowed with a threefold division. Harry went on pouring his magic, dividing and directing the power. This was why he had needed the machine: not to pull out the magic, but to hold it once he had it. And to beam it into the air when he was ready.

The stag was pawing and dancing, now trying to look under the glamour. It knew there was one, but not what it meant. The people staring from a distance, or walking towards him across the grass, would see him shuffling among the documents on the table, and signing some. No one would know the truth until he was ready to show it to them.

Though it was hard, especially when pushing against the compelling pressure of the fire that was coming out of him, Harry managed to turn his head and see Draco hurrying towards him. George was behind him, but George's mouth was wide like a lion's and his eyes so bright that they probably ached. George knew what was going on, or enough that the actual achievement of the surrender wouldn't make a difference.

But Draco…

Harry wished he could have told him. And if he had been sure that the lightning stag wasn't listening to him at any point, then he would have. But it was always listening, and this was meant to fool it.

To fool everyone, except the people who would know better when they were more intimately concerned.

Harry wrapped his hands around each other. The magic was pulling at his skin and the bones beneath it now, turning them transparent, turning them liquid, turning them into light. The magic was coming from _him_, and it hurt. Harry bowed his head, and watched the sweat sliding down his face turn into steam.

He spun.

The loop on the left, the one that shone like the stag, went off in a fountain of fire. It spread out over the grass and the hill, carrying safety of its own, carrying the light to dazzle. Deception. Glamour.

Illusion.

The loop in the middle lifted itself and spread silent wings, wings that dragged on the ground and spread out under everyone's eyes. Not important enough to be noticed, and yet the most important step of all, it would achieve what Harry had originally wanted for the revolution, and do so in a way that couldn't hurt anyone.

He hoped.

The loop on the right leaped up and joined the dance, spreading out a sheet of white fire that aimed straight for Draco, shining like a haven. Sanctuary. Solace.

Safety.

And in the middle, the force that couldn't do anything until he made it happen…

Harry laughed, and he didn't care what they heard.

He stepped forwards, into the fire, and surrendered.


	47. Back to the Fire

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_Chapter Forty-Seven—Back to the Fire_

Draco flung one hand across his eyes as the fire broke out before him. For a moment, he thought he could see Harry in it, a laughing Harry a thousand times bigger than the real one, his eyes made of green flames, his black hair swirling and tinged with red and gold that looked strangely natural on him, his hands reaching out as though to embrace the furthest corners of the earth.

And then the vision was gone, and he could hear the shouts of the Aurors and the reporters on the other side of the hill. Beside him, the mad Weasley was laughing, but with a low, coughing laugh, the kind of thing Draco thought a lion would make while watching a weak animal die. Everywhere were screams and confusion.

The fire was rising above them. Draco tilted his head and watched it go, watched it striking upwards and higher, and higher. Nothing touched the ground, not even the sparks that he would have expected to rain down, as good as Harry's control over his magic was. He felt his spine hurting with the force of the pressure he was using on his hands. He opened them and swallowed.

His skin felt hotter and tighter than it should. The fire was pushing down on them all, affecting them all, he thought, but he didn't understand how. He kept waiting for it to lash out and burn someone, and he kept waiting to be snatched away, along with his parents, to the safety Harry had promised, but neither occurred.

"Do you understand?" he asked, turning to the mad Weasley. Perhaps he should have asked Harry's friends, but they were clinging to each other and staring at the pillar of fire with expressions that didn't reassure him. Quite clearly, Harry hadn't confided anything in them that he hadn't said to Draco, either.

Weasley smiled at him. Draco would have said there was a different personality behind his eyes in that moment if he didn't know better. "Yes," he replied. "We don't know the specifics, but we did make a machine for him with three loops of metal, and I wouldn't be surprised if there were three things happening here. Let's watch and see if we can distinguish them!" He turned back to the pillar of fire, his eyes and mouth both wide with wonder.

Draco moved up beside him, forcing himself a step closer to the fire, and swallowed again. _Harry, if one of those things isn't your best attempt at surviving this situation, then I'm going to hurt you._

* * *

He was above them, and he was weaving around the lightning stag, which tossed its head up and presented its flickering antlers to him as if it would charge.

This was the way, this was the thing Harry had planned, and so far it was going _exactly _as planned. He had known that the future and the prophecy would never leave him alone, that there was no way he could please them but surrender, and here it was.

Feigned.

He danced, consciousness and mind and memory and imagination, through the fire, and wove from it the finest of his illusions, the most real of them. He could not transform himself as he had transformed the meeting room into the Gryffindor common room for Ron, because he had other plans to fulfill and other things to do, but he was still committed to this, so that the prophecy would leave him alone.

And others. The Ministry was less likely to come after someone who had risen to the sky in a blaze of glory.

Harry sang to the stag, and out of the song came ascension. He sang of the lightning road, and the lightning road was there, hanging in the sky, stretching to the future, dividing in two, and then three, and then four, and then five. He sang the memories of the distant worlds he had seen in the stag's eyes, and strung them across the heavens.

He held out his hands, and the fire foamed in front of him and formed into the figure he knew he should have been, the figure the lightning stag had wanted him to be, the figure the revolutionaries had wanted to follow. This fellow had a fine fair face, and eyes through which the fire gleamed, and a stance that could make people want to kneel at his feet. He made righteous and just decisions; you could see it in his smile. He would never have burned a woman to death in a duel or fallen in love with his childhood enemy.

He would never do anything so disgraceful as to stay in the world when he realized that his magic was growing too strong for it. He would leave.

Harry gave him wings of delicate golden flames, arched with blue, canopied with orange, and then launched him at the lightning stag. It drew back, and then reared up and flew alongside him, bugling with delight.

Harry watched his angel-self wheel, perfectly visible to everyone, smiling down at them. He saw some people below fall to their knees, and other stand angrily shouting, and still others open their mouths and gape. They would react to him as the wizarding world had always reacted to Harry Potter, with a variety of wrongness, but this time, all the wrongness would be put right. They _would _be seeing the heroic man who couldn't stay with the peons any longer or the cowardly deserter, whatever they wanted to see.

He reached out, and plucked something from the sky he hadn't known would be there: the force of their belief, the invisible weaves of desire and admiration and longing to think that he was pure and good. He draped them around the ascending figure, and the illusion became strong enough to live and last long past the point when it would pass out of earth's sky, into those other worlds the stag had shown him.

They would think that was what had happened to him. They would think that was the real gift he gave them, leaving the wizarding world open to their influence or giving them a legend to retell forever.

They would not see the real gift he had given them, until later.

He turned, and dived back into the fire. That was the first third of what he had to do done, but only the first.

* * *

Hermione closed her eyes. The tears burned and stung, but she swallowed, and her throat cleared. She was sure that she could see again when she managed to open her eyes and see what was actually _there_, instead of what she had imagined.

Because she must have imagined Harry vanishing. He couldn't truly have done it.

She opened her eyes again and looked up, ignoring the way Ron clutched at her arm, ignoring the shouts that stung her ears. The column of fire loomed overhead, but it dimmed and vanished as she watched. What was left was a trembling smoke, silver with the rays of the sun stabbing from behind it, curling in on itself and dissipating into nothingness. Hermione leaned forwards, straining for a glimpse of black or green in it.

Nothing.

Hermione leaned on Ron. She didn't consider herself weak, but having just seen her best friend depart on wings of flame and nothing where he had stood—

Yes. She thought it was an excusable time for weakness if anything was.

The shouts got worse. Clearwater was on the hill now, flanked by her Auror guards, waving her hand in the space where the table with Harry's documents on it had stood. Hermione managed to smile despite her own worry balling up in her throat. At least Harry had puzzled the Minister one more time if he was gone.

_He can't be. Not without telling us. I know he wouldn't tell us his plan, but he would have told us if he was going to go forever. And…and he wouldn't have had a reason to hide that from the lightning stag, if he was just going to do what it wanted. He would have had time for farewells and reassuring us he'd be all right._

_ This has to be something else. A trick of some kind._

She had just started to cheer up because of that when Ron stiffened next to her. Hermione looked up and found Clearwater staring at her. She said something to her guards, and most of the Aurors fell back, but Clearwater hurried towards them with two at her sides.

Ron made a sound like a hungry lion, and Hermione reached up and clutched his arm. "Don't kill her," she whispered.

"I want to," Ron said. "And if she comes close enough to actually threaten you, instead of only dreaming of doing it, then I'll hurt her." He moved around in front of her, his head lowered and his eyes on the Aurors. Hermione remembered that he'd had their training, too, and he might know them and the way they fought.

She pressed around her husband and nodded to Minister Clearwater, trying to maintain a calm, polite expression. She doubted it did any good, but she could look more mature than the Minister if she tried. (Not that that was difficult). "Good afternoon, Minister. Was there something you wanted to say to me?"

"Yes," said Clearwater, and her voice carried. She was trying to make this public, Hermione realized, probably so no one could say she'd done this clandestinely. Unfortunately, she'd chosen her moment wrong, since everyone was still gaping at the smoke that burned away in the sun, and the spectacle Harry had made on rising.

_He's not gone. He's not._

"Arrest the traitor," Clearwater told the Aurors with her, and stepped aside.

Ron moved so fast Hermione didn't actually see his wand gesture, only the flash of red light that indicated the Stunners at play. Both of the Aurors slumped to the ground and lay there, Stupefied. Hermione had the presence of mind to Summon their wands before Clearwater could do something with them.

Ron edged forwards again. His eyes were wide, and dreamy, his mouth set in a smile Hermione had never seen before. He continued looking at Clearwater as though she was the center of his universe.

Hermione had seen the real version of _that _look, though, and knew that Clearwater was only the center for one reason. "Ron," she said quietly, and moved up beside him again. "I can protect myself."

"No," Ron said. "I know you can take care of yourself, love. You proved that when you got out of there. But I couldn't do anything for you for the longest time. And I had to watch from a distance as you were put under an Unforgivable and then had to stay there and maintain a cover that was even harder than before." Clearwater matched him stare for stare, but Hermione could see the way her cheek twitched. "I'm going to have payback for that. From the Minister who thought that she could use the Imperius casually, to get what she wanted, on _my_ wife."

"I've studied your criminal records, Weasley," Clearwater said. "I know you used the Imperius Curse during the war. All of you did."

"Stupid kids, using those spells in a war that would have killed them," Ron countered instantly. "A little different from the Minister using it on someone who hadn't offered her direct harm."

"She was a spy," said Clearwater, and Hermione stepped back in spite of herself when the Minister looked at her. The hatred there was more than she had ever thought she would inspire. People hated her for her blood, hated her out of jealousy, hated her because she pushed legislation for house-elves. They didn't hate her because of something she had done to protect herself, until now. "I had every right to stop her from feeding information to the enemy."

"Not with that spell," Ron said. "Never with that spell. And never her."

"You know nothing about politics," Clearwater said, and drew her wand. She had been an Auror, too, Hermione thought, in between and behind her fear. She didn't know that she could stop what was going forward, and increasingly, she was losing the desire to try. "_Nothing_. You have no idea what I could have done to her when I suspected her spying. I could have had her tortured. I could have had her locked up. I did the kinder thing, and allowed her to maintain her freedom and a semblance of use. Doesn't she love being useful?"

"Not to someone like you," Hermione said, and didn't know she was going to say it aloud until she heard the words emerging from her lips.

Clearwater threw her one lingering look, as though to memorize what her face looked like before a spell destroyed it. In the moment she was turned away, Ron struck her with a blast of steam that almost rocked her off her feet, and then the battle began.

Hermione fell back from it so that she could judge better where she should stand and how she could intervene, and in the meantime, couldn't help throwing a glance up at the sky.

_Come on, Harry. I know you wouldn't abandon us without a farewell, that part of this must have been a ruse to fool the lightning stag and the prophecy. Come back and help us._

* * *

Harry turned to the second far loop, leaving the central one smoldering with a sullen silver light for now. He had to use the machine for its intended purpose, and hold back one of the concentrations of his magic, or he would try to spend himself too far and fast, and lose everything in trying to do everything.

He reached down and scooped the magic of the second loop into his hands, and it sparkled in front of him, pure and blazing white. Harry smiled. That was the color that came to mind when he thought of Draco, apparently. Stainless. Flawless. He wondered how Draco would feel to know that.

_When this is over, I'll ask him._

He tossed the magic into the air, and it caught and turned above him, shining like the head of a white flower. He ignored the gaping stares he was sure he attracted. The illusion was gone now, and the people who watched would be able to see the fire flaring, but none of them would know what it meant. And if the lightning stag looked down, it would think only that he had left some of his magic behind. Even it had not desired that he bring the whole of his fire with him when he went to the other worlds.

Harry spun and twisted the power in front of him, weaving it together, and adding other, smaller threads as he thought about them. Lucius Malfoy. Narcissa Malfoy. Ron. Hermione. He hesitated a moment over whether to add two threads for George, and finally settled on two as the number that felt right, rather than the number that made logical sense. After that came eight more, for Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fleur, Ginny, and Bill and Fleur's daughter. They hadn't joined him in the revolution, and he understood why: because they had been able to see from the beginning that he didn't need the help and that it probably wouldn't work out the way he wanted it to.

But he would keep them safe anyway. The Ministry might strike at innocents to try and hurt him, but these were the most likely targets. His friends. His family.

His lover and his lover's family.

Harry glanced up at the ball that hovered above him, and the nest of threads, and then reached up and added blue fire to the nearest three strands. Draco and his family would need a place far away from here, a place where Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy could stay and recover. Harry doubted they would ever be the same people they had been before Azkaban, but they should have the chance. And that meant Draco would have the chance to watch them become stronger again, as well.

The rest of the strands, he wrapped a gold and scarlet cloak around. Let the Ministry try to threaten them. Spells would bounce from suddenly-appearing wards, and potions they hadn't agreed to swallow would simply turn into balls in their throats or on their skin and be coughed or lobbed back up. In times of emergency, if they wished to flee, they could come to the same haven that Harry was constructing for Draco and his parents.

A place far away, where no one else could ever find them, because no one else would have the key. An ideal place.

He hesitated. He thought he was forgetting something, but it wasn't until he thought back on his last few conversations with Draco that he realized what it was. He smiled and wove another thread through the nest, for himself. That meant he would be added to the place and pulled along with them, when they went.

Which was necessary for another reason.

Harry turned the glittering ball in front of him, and then lifted it and threw it high. It burst above him like a firework, orange and gold and red, partially in tribute to Fred and George and the fireworks they had sometimes included among their Wheezes. The rain of sparks that would fall would cover those the spell was intended to protect, and bind to them. That would mean it lasted, permanent as their skin.

He hovered there, shaken and drained, after the spell left him. He had known he was strong, but he didn't know if anyone else recognized the extent of his strength. He was shivering, holding himself.

And then he remembered there were still other things to be done, things that the magic in the central loop waited for. He turned and stooped down, towards the place where the greatest fire still shimmered.

Where his surrender waited.

* * *

George felt the flame that settled around him, and although he could have fought it—he carried some pranks and inventions in his pockets that could disrupt virtually any spell, as well as Fred in the back of his skull—he was curious about what it might feel like. He let it settle around him, and then peered at the world. If the spell had changed his perceptions of the world, that might be annoying. He would need to know.

The flames that cut his vision were soft and shimmering, green and blue and red and white. George reached up and patted the air around his shoulders, and felt more currents of warmth than should be there, darting in several directions and caressing his fingers. He let them nip at and play with him, and then stepped back. Yes, the giant ball of white flame above them had faded.

Whatever this was, it was a gift from Harry to him. George had absolutely no doubt about that.

He turned, and saw that Malfoy was sheened in the flame, too, with it gleaming in his eyes and turning them blue, around his arms and making them paler than before, adding tints of gold to his almost-white hair. He caught George's gaze and stood there, uncertain, for a moment, as if he thought George would tell him something bad.

George smiled at him. Malfoy had been more courageous in the face of Harry apparently going off like a firework than George would have thought he could be, and that had earned him some indulgence, if they hadn't already built something like an awkward, straining friendship. He nodded up the hill. "Are you going or not?" he asked.

"Going?" Malfoy repeated the word like it was a foreign concept, staring at the hill and blinking.

George rolled his eyes. "_Yes, _idiot. Harry's still there. He only used the illusion to make everyone think he'd vanished and they had nothing more to fear from him. There's no way that he would actually go and leave you behind, even more than all the rest of us. And you're mad if you don't think that this fire came from him and nowhere else." He gestured at the sparks that still fizzed and danced on his clothing. "Go up to him. I think he must be waiting for you. Why else would he have lingered?"

Malfoy hesitated once more. Then he began climbing.

George climbed behind him. He believed what he'd said, but he still wanted to shake Harry for not telling them what the machine did earlier. He could have made it even more impressive and easy to use if Harry had just _said _that he wanted it to create a giant illusion and then channel his magic into some kind of magical safety-fire.

_And I could have helped more, _Fred said, with immense dignity, in the back of his mind.

George snorted. "You're just angry that you think he didn't provide you with any special protection," he muttered. He didn't think Malfoy, climbing with unusual dedication beside him, would notice him talking to himself, as he would think it. "Look into the back of your thoughts, and then talk to me again."

Fred grumbled, but did as George had said. Then there was some blank silence, while George continued climbing with some smugness. Fred whispered at last, _How in the world did he do that? I can see it, there in front of me, like a blue coat hanging on a hook. I don't—how did he reach into your thoughts and find me? How? _Fred's voice was getting slightly hysterical.

It wasn't the reaction George had thought he would have to proof that someone else saw him as real, but he could understand it, too. Their thoughts had always been private between them, flowing along a channel no one else had access to. That Harry had reached out and invaded that link without so much as a by-your-leave was one of the more interesting things George had ever heard of, and one of the most terrifying.

"I don't know," he said back, gently. "But it's there, and it means that he's concerned about you and thinks you're real. So. Stop complaining."

_You're climbing the hill all wrong. _

Then again, it probably wouldn't be his brother if he stopped complaining. George grinned and scrambled after Malfoy as he started to near the top of the hill.

* * *

The central loop loomed in front of him, and the magic in the midst of it, the way it shone and foamed, was enough to awe even Harry into silence for a moment. He hadn't known he had that much power in him.

He reached out to it, and it extended a single, bright tendril to him, like molten lava with spots of gold and orange floating reflected in it. Harry swallowed. It was so beautiful, so bright, and he didn't know how to hang onto it. It seemed to slide through his hand, caressing him. Harry shook his head again.

With this much power, he could do anything. Go anywhere. Explore the universe as the stag had urged him to do, but without the constraints of obeying prophecy and destiny.

But no. He had made a promise to the people he led into the revolution, and he hadn't kept it. He had vowed that he would make the world safe for Muggleborns and stop them from being condemned by people who had the money or the political favor to get away with crimes.

So.

He reached out, with his magic, and began to make it so.


	48. Nothing Gold Can Stay

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Forty-Eight—Nothing Gold Can Stay_

The fire leaped in front of him, and Harry could see his options stretching before him as a pair of paths, rather like the ones he had seen in the stag's eyes. Of course, that sight had probably influenced him to set things up that way now; he knew there was no _rule _that said the fire had to look like a pair of paths.

It could have looked like anything. Perhaps anything _it _wanted, rather than what he wanted. Harry wasn't sure how independent his magic was from him.

He watched the nearest path shimmer and twist away into the distance. It seemed to climb a hill, like the one he hovered above in the real world. The flagstones were made of red and gold and orange flame, hammered flat and almost drained of warmth. At the end waited a light rather like the one the stag had shown him.

That was the path he would take if he decided not to do what he had come to do after all, but draw his magic back into his body. He faced the second path instead.

It sparked between trees of white flame, which arched small, lacy branches over the path. The sparks spiraled up and came down, lazily, so bright that Harry's heart ached watching them. For the first three or four steps, until he passed between the first pair of trees, that path was wilder than even the white light at the end of the other road.

For the first three or four steps.

And then it became a path of ashes and cinders, and there was no end in sight. Harry didn't know what he would become, where he would go, if he took that path. The only sure thing was that it wasn't a glorious destiny, not like the other, and that he wouldn't have as much fierce and wild joy if he walked it.

Harry smiled. Joy wasn't what he was here for. If he had gone with the stag, he wouldn't have had _that _much of it; he would have suffered with the recollection of those he was leaving behind. He reached out and took a determined step onto the path that faded into ashes, the path lined with trees.

The trees reached towards him. The fire reached towards him. Harry reached out and drew a line between that wildfire, still free, and the trapped and waiting magic in the third loop of the machine.

He was here, now, and it was time to do what he had come to do.

* * *

Draco had to stop well before he reached the top of the hill. The air was hot and windy, and it pressed against his face and lungs every time he tried to draw in a breath. He leaned with his hands on his knees, wheezing, and stared desperately at the place where Harry had vanished behind the wall of flames. He bit his lips until the blood ran, wondering whether that kind of pain could soothe his growing conviction that he should have been with Harry _before _the walls rose.

"It'll be all right."

Draco turned on Weasley before he could help himself. Weasley was doing a shit job if he intended to reassure Draco. He had been muttering to himself as he climbed the hill, and now he looked at the fire as if he had personally created the barrier that kept Draco away from Harry. Perhaps he had, at that, if the "machine" he had talked about had been the thing Harry was pumping his magic into.

"What do you mean, _it'll be all right?"_ He'd always been good at mimicking voices—essential tool in the arsenal of a schoolyard bully, after all—and now he pitched his into a falsetto parody of Weasley's. "I don't give a shit about everyone else. I want Harry, and I think he could burn himself to death in this!"

Weasley looked at him, blinking a little, as if it had never occurred to him that Draco might want to be reassured by more than just his bare word. The frown puckered the lines between his brows, and then he shook his head and said, "But the machine we invented for him works the way it's supposed to. That means Harry _has _to be all right, because the machine would hold and contain his magic."

"You said you didn't know the purpose of the machine when you built it," Draco said. Actually, he couldn't remember if Weasley had really said that or just implied it, but from the way he hesitated and then nodded, Draco reckoned his words were accurate. "How do you know it does that, then? It could break apart. Harry practically _is _magic at this point." He glared at the white shimmer ahead of them, so much like a heat shimmer in the air that he had to wonder how much of it was there at all and how much of it was only a marker of Harry's position in some distant magical or mental word, and back at Weasley. "Do you feel what it's doing to the weather? You think you could invent a machine that would contain something like _that_?"

Weasley licked his lips. "Well, yeah," he said at last. "Harry was the one who designed it. If he wanted something stronger, then he would have asked us for it."

"Stop talking about _us!_" Draco snapped, outraged now that he thought about it. Harry had depended on someone who was mad—who thought his dead twin still lived and talked to him, or something—to create the machine that would save his life. It was enough to make Draco want to hit something. _Harry. You should have come to me. I have a lot of flaws, but at least you know I'm sane, and I could have used my magic to assemble the materials you wanted, if only you had told me the spells to cast it._

And that stopped him again, because he knew Harry had had Weasley build the machine in part to spare himself the work. He didn't have _time _to teach someone else to cast those spells, or spend hours arguing with people who thought him mad and would want to interfere in his plans. He just wanted someone who would do as he asked with a minimum of fuss, and Weasley was that person. Perhaps Harry had even felt kindred to him, being more than half-mad himself.

Draco shook his head and turned back to the white shimmer in front of him, ignoring the way Weasley tried to respond. He really wasn't in the mood to talk to him right now, and especially not to hear his own poisonous words echoed back to him. He watched the shimmer instead, and thought he saw it bend inwards, turning silver and blue along the edges. Most other people were watching, too, but Draco didn't know how well they could see it. Perhaps it wasn't something you could even see unless you had the special protection of that fire spell Harry had cast a few minutes ago.

_He's still here. He isn't dead. I have to believe that._

* * *

Harry danced with the fire.

Once again, there was music, but this beat was loud and present and fierce, not the half-sensed one he had heard before he called the fire. It wove Harry's body in a circle, and then spread his arms and legs. For a moment he twirled, blazing, against a background that shone like the death of a star. And he called and he called, his voice echoing across distances, into beliefs, picking them up as he had picked up the beliefs of what people would like to see him do when he sent the illusion of himself rising into space.

His partner appeared—a tall woman in a long gown, with a pair of scales in her hand. Lady Justice, the image of justice that a great many people carried half-recognized in their heads, stretching out a hand to Harry and dancing around him.

Harry smiled at her and wove the fire into her, making her stronger. Not a sense of true justice, not a goddess; he was not powerful enough to create something like that. But he could pour life and flame into an image, and he could make that image solid enough for other people to see and interact with.

An image that would appear in courtrooms when someone made a decision based on greed or blood prejudice rather than the evidence. An image that would only grow stronger with time as more people came to dread her appearing, and poured their belief into her. She would follow the offenders around; she would stand at the foot of their beds, pointing an accusing finger at them; she would be visible in the streets to others, and they would know they were looking at someone dishonest.

Harry could practically hear Draco scoffing in the back of his head. _And you think that being thought _dishonest _is going to be that bad for some of us, that we would willingly give up our ability to put Muggleborns in prison for that? _

Harry smiled again, and watched the robes of Lady Justice glow white, and the scales in her hand gleam like a sharpened sword. Even with a compliant Minister in power, the pure-bloods who walked away from crimes had been discreet about it. None of them had wanted the reputation of crime to follow them; that was one reason they had bothered to go through the farce of a trial at all, rather than simply and openly bribing the Wizengamot members. The apparition would make it impossible for them to spread those lies, or escape the silent accusation looming over their shoulders.

That wasn't the same as proving guilt, of course. The Wizengamot members might still make decisions that let pure-bloods go. But Lady Justice would appear, and they would at least earn a reputation as being less clever than they had been.

To prevent Muggleborns from being condemned, however, Harry knew he would probably need something else.

He turned around and reached out into the fire. This time, the memories that came to him were different, and relied less on the beliefs of the people around him. He closed his eyes and remembered, again, darkness and blood and the plunge of a long fang through his arm. He should have died them. In other lifetimes, in other worlds like the ones the stag had shown him to try and get him to leave this one, he probably _had _died.

But not in this one.

The song poured through his ears. Once heard, never forgotten, or perhaps his magic had sharpened his memory. Harry wasn't sure which one was true, and he didn't see that he needed to be sure. He simply stood there, weaving the fire, until he felt a slight weight jolt his shoulder. He opened his eyes and turned his head.

The image of the phoenix on his shoulder looked so like Fawkes that Harry swallowed for a moment and blinked back tears. It reached out and laid one talon lightly along his hand, staring at him with bright eyes. Then it took off and flew around the head of Lady Justice, singing.

Harry reached out again, and flung all his magic into them.

Both of them. One was the ghost of justice that had not been given, and would haunt like a ghost. She could not force someone to change their minds. Yes, Harry was powerful enough to have laid down a change that would make a false acquittal literally impossible to give, but he wasn't interested in contravening people's minds and hearts like that. It was one thing to weave a protection around his friends and loved ones that meant they were safe from outside interference; it was another to reach out and touch people whom he knew wouldn't welcome that kind of intervention no matter how gently he did it.

And he had dealt long enough already with people being afraid of him.

The phoenix, the circling image of Fawkes, of fire, of brightness, of the future, of hope, was different. Harry poured his power into its voice, not its fire, and set it to perch above the courtrooms and sing.

He had started the revolution to try and make sure no more innocent Muggleborns were sent to Azkaban. But pure-bloods had followed him, too, and it was as likely—at least, it might be as likely in a generation or two—that they would be declared guilty if panic against Death Eaters or a pure-blood Dark Lord arose. It was not impossible. Harry wanted to make sure _anyone _would be protected.

He wasn't an Auror any longer. It wasn't his job to arrest people.

Phoenixes were innocent, and would never bond with anyone who had darkness in his heart. Harry made this one the _voice _of innocence, which would sing at the moments when evidence was overlooked, when witnesses lied, when Wizengamot members or others trying the accused ignored legal rules, such as changing the times of trials. Harry thought the song would get on some people's nerves; a few of the trials he attended had such blatant rule-breaking that there would be enough phoenix song to interrupt the lawyers' speeches.

But, again, that was not the same as forcing people to consider the evidence before them. It was possible that a trial would proceed and force an innocent person, Muggleborn or pure-blood, into prison.

He breathed, and fire spiraled between him and the phoenix, linking them together, surrounding the phoenix with what looked like lacy flowers of flame. The phoenix opened its beak and drank them in, singing all the while, wings flapping in lazy slow motion.

So the phoenix would also follow the condemned innocent to the prison cells and sit there, singing, until either a new trial began or the prisoner was released. Inconvenient for the guards and perhaps even the prisoners, Harry thought, but he had promised to change things.

He had said he would.

He shivered a little as the fire left him and both Lady Justice and the phoenix shone back at him. He had known it would be like this, when he saw the ash and the cinders on the second road, and that was no reason to draw back. He pulled on more of his magic and poured it out. Eventually, as more and more people saw them and fed them with belief, these illusions would rely less on his power, but for now, they needed it so that they didn't cease to exist once he stopped.

_Stopped._

Harry yawned, and then shivered again. All the places in him filled with gleaming flame were empty. He reached down into the depths of his being and coaxed out the last tiny wisps, pointing them at the great fire and whispering where their company had gone. They fled from him eagerly, humming as they flew.

He was tired.

He had done a lot. He didn't know if it was enough, but at least he had done what he began the revolution to do. It had grown beyond that, he knew, and he had made some promises he hadn't kept.

But this was the great one, the implicit one, the task he had begun with the burning of Azkaban and which he hadn't completed. He watched the woman with the scales of Justice and the phoenix shining before him, and smiled. It was a good feeling.

This was what it felt like to surrender completely. His magic. His power. He held the shining link for one moment more, the red and the gold, until he felt his hands begin to burn. He was vulnerable to the flames, now that he had ceased to be the powerhouse the prophecy had demanded and was just an ordinary mortal.

_Not even a wizard, really, _he thought, and, for the last time, let the fire go. He closed his eyes and fell forwards, his sight and vision consumed by phoenix song.

* * *

Ron dueled Clearwater the way Hermione would have wanted someone to fight for her, if she had _ever _wanted someone to fight for her.

The movements of his wand were swift and smooth and sharp. He whipped around when she tossed Stunners at him, and although he never managed to Disarm her—the first thing Hermione would have tried—he kept her too busy most of the time to try offensive strikes. Clearwater got through with one spell that razed a line of blood down Ron's cheek, but he only smiled and shook his head as though replying to Hermione's silent cry of despair, and kept dueling. His head was bowed slightly, his eyes wide and intelligent and utterly clear.

He made Clearwater trip on invisible obstacles. He tossed her robes up around her head, and she groped at them as much, Hermione thought, in offended dignity as panic that she couldn't see. When her face emerged from that trap, it was red. Ron smiled at her and made her fall flat on her arse over what looked, to Hermione's quick eye, like a log that shimmered briefly before it turned invisible.

Clearwater was breathing hard by then, but she cast a spell that could have shattered Ron's kneecap, since she was lying on the ground anyway. Hermione tensed to intervene, but Ron caught it with a Shield Charm that he used so contemptuously Hermione laughed.

Clearwater's gaze flickered to her, and then she raised her wand and pulled it back towards her body with a strong rush that made Hermione stumble. She knew she was being _Summoned_, and she hated that. She cast a _Finite_ and sneered at Clearwater's blinking eyes and open mouth.

Ron hit her with a spell from the side while she was distracted, one Hermione knew should have staved her head in. But either she was luckier than she seemed, or she was better than either of them had realized, because she whirled and caught it in time, although she drew in her breath hard and struggled dizzily to her feet. Clipped, dazed maybe, but not down.

_More's the pity, _Hermione thought, and circled, and waited for her chance.

She found it when Clearwater was utterly focused on dodging the small bolts of energy and light Ron hurled at her, all of which hummed. Hermione made the ground roll up in a small hump, and then drop down into a pit. Then she nodded at Ron, trusting to the silent communication they sometimes had since they married to confirm her plan to him.

It worked. Ron's smile flashed, and he abruptly redoubled his attacks, something Clearwater must not have thought he had the energy to do. Hell, Hermione didn't know where he was getting it, either. He drove her backwards, and she went without time to check behind her. Hermione waited, counting heartbeats under her breath to have something to do as she waited for the moment when their trap would work or fail.

It worked. Clearwater reeled up the small mound of grass and then fell towards the pit behind it. Ron cast "_Expelliarmus!_" in a voice that made him sound a great deal larger—a surprising feat—and snatched her wand out of the air as it flew towards him. Hermione then cast a shield over the pit, one that would hold Clearwater in there until such time as they decided they wanted to break her free.

Clearwater snarled something. Hermione couldn't hear her, since she had happened to make the shield soundproof. She didn't know if anyone would believe it was an accident if this ever came before the Wizengamot, but she doubted that it ever would.

"Hermione. Come here."

She turned around, and Ron jerked her into his arms and kissed her. And Hermione couldn't even worry about the flame in the sky, or where Harry had gone, or what might happen after this. She was too busy kissing him back.

* * *

He was tired.

It was the first thing Harry thought of when he came back to himself. Slowly, slowly, so slowly. It was as if the drifting ash that he had seen pictured on that trail was slowly mounding into a human being.

He opened his eyes.

He hovered in the midst of fire, and he was surprised for a bare instant—he no longer had power over it, the magic was gone, he was a _Muggle—_before he remembered the last weave he had put into the fire of the protection spell. Right. Since he didn't have magic anymore, he would have had a hard time guarding himself from potential enemies otherwise. There was a thin white streak of flame in front of him, just waiting for him to tug on it.

His arm felt as if his bones had turned to lead, but Harry reached up and pulled the streak.

It wrapped around him, shining, singing, pulling. Harry yielded to it gladly and closed his eyes. He wondered for a moment what would happen when he woke up, since this was taking him to the shelter he had created for Draco and his parents. Perhaps Draco wouldn't want him anymore, now that Harry was without his magic.

Whatever. He would worry about that when he woke up. Right now, nothing much mattered, not next to the tiredness.

* * *

Draco whirled around, blinking. One moment he was on the hill, pressing against the transparent barrier of flame that he knew kept Harry from him, and the next he was in a room with marble walls, a comfortable carpet beneath his feet. He glanced around. The room had a wide bed, piled with tapestries presumably meant to go on the walls. The colors of the tapestries were green and silver, he noted with growing confusion. Had he somehow been transported to a hidden room in the dungeons of Hogwarts?

Then he took a closer look at the bed, and realized that there was a smear of black among the tapestries. He rushed over, pushing them away.

Harry lay on the bed, asleep, his head sagging to the side. Draco shook him. Then he pinched his ear. Then he yelled into it.

Nothing happened. Draco would have thought Harry was dead, his skin was so cool, except that his chest rose and fell with regular breaths, the way it had the night that Harry put himself to sleep so Draco could have pleasure in looking at him. Draco closed his eyes and leaned back, shaking his head.

He assumed his parents were here somewhere. Harry had promised. But at the moment, the tension had left him so suddenly that he didn't have the energy left to search for them. He wanted to—

To curl up here beside Harry.

So he did, and tugged one of the immense tapestries (which seemed to show a forest under a silver sun, instead of a moon) over them.

* * *

George lifted a hand in salute as the barrier vanished, and Malfoy did the same thing from beside them, gone so suddenly that air rushed in to fill his place.

"You did it," he whispered. "It worked. It _worked_, Harry, you bloody bastard." He touched his hand to his forehead in a longer salute. "Good hunting, wherever you are."


	49. Picking Up the Pieces

Thank you again for all the reviews!

_Chapter Forty-Nine—Picking Up the Pieces_

Harry opened his eyes to silence.

It took him long moments to figure out what about the silence was so strange. He rolled his head from side to side on the pillows and frowned, and still no answer came to him. He raised a hand and tried to call fire—

And then he knew.

He settled back with a little grunt, closing his eyes. His muscles ached. His chest hurt as though someone had scooped out his heart along with his magic. His eyes burned along the edges with lack of sleep, despite the rest he'd just woken up from, and he had more ordinary burns here and there on his skin.

But nothing of that compared to the silence in his head where the crackling of the flames had been.

"Awake at last, then."

Harry blinked. Perhaps he had drifted away into a doze as he lay there pondering the lack of his magic, or perhaps he had simply overlooked him while his eyes were open, but he could have sworn that Draco hadn't been there a moment ago. He reached out a hand, half-wondering if Draco would push it away. He must have had the chance by now to see that Harry wasn't the man he had been.

Draco clenched his wrist, though, and shook his head. "You idiot," he murmured. "What exactly did you do?"

Harry licked his lips. "Used my magic to create a personification of justice and a personification of mercy," he said. "A woman like Lady Justice and a phoenix. They'll make it clear to everyone when someone decides to condemn a Muggleborn—or a pure-blood—because they're bribed or because they hate them as a person. I started the revolution saying that I would find a way to overcome condemnations and unlawful acquittals that happened simply because of blood prejudice. I did."

Draco blinked. His face looked young and fresh and startled, Harry thought, but with a warmth behind and beneath the skin that Harry no longer shared. He caressed Harry's hand for a moment, fingers working back and forth on the bones as his mouth pinched in thought. Then he said, "And—and it took _all _your magic?"

"Yes," Harry said. He hadn't expected them to come to it so soon, but now that it was here, he might as well accept that Draco's rejection might be, too. He pressed himself to sit up, and did it, though he had to keep leaning against pillows as he did. He never took his eyes from Draco's face. "Does that disgust you?"

* * *

Draco touched Harry's hand again, and didn't answer.

He wasn't sure he knew _how _to answer. He had certainly never thought he would be in the position of answering such a question from his ridiculously magically powerful partner who had sacrificed all his magic so Muggleborns and pure-bloods could stop forcing each other into prison.

He had never thought he would _have _a ridiculously magically powerful partner in the first place, or that it would be Potter. Or that he would be part of a revolution where something like the cause of Muggleborns mattered to him.

So he touched Harry's fingers, and smoothed his own fingers up and down Harry's skin over the pulse, and didn't answer.

Harry exhaled shakily and reached out as though he was thinking of touching Draco more than he already was, then hesitated and pulled back. "If it disgusts you," he said, with a shake in the back of his voice Draco had never heard from him, "then I can accept that. But I think I want to know now, so I can have—time to accept it. And time to plan where I'm going to go when I leave here."

Draco met his eyes again. Yes, the assurance was gone, the almost mad belief in himself that Harry had demonstrated so often. The belief had come from the magic, Draco knew now. Not because Harry thought he was the chosen of destiny, not because he had ever valued or believed in himself as much as other people had, but because he knew he had had the power to accomplish what he wanted to do. Now it was gone, and he—

"Did you create this safehouse for us?" Draco asked abruptly, gesturing around at the stone walls that arched above their heads. He had been out the door of the tapestry room, as he thought of it because of the enormous amount of tapestries he'd first seen piled on the bed, to look around, and found more stone corridors, including one shimmering, locked door of power behind which he could see his parents. They had luxurious beds, wardrobes full of clothes, and what looked like a practice room complete with practice wands. But Draco knew, from watching his father claw at the door, that it wouldn't open to their touch.

"Yes," Harry said. "And put in a twist of magic that would pull me along to it when the rest of the enchantment was done, because I knew I wouldn't have enough power left to accomplish that."

Draco shook his head. "So losing your magic wasn't a side-effect. You went into this _knowing _it might happen."

"I did." Harry half-lowered his head. He looked like a stubborn unicorn, Draco thought with exasperated affection, ready to charge if only he received something solid to stab at.

"That's…odd to me, but I accept that it might happen," Draco said. "That you would know and still think the sacrifice worth it." He took a deep breath, and then found he was smiling. He spread Harry's fingers and stroked his own between them, up and down in long motions. "How can I be upset about it when you went into this anticipating it, and it mattered so much to you to save my parents and myself, too?"

Harry blinked. Then he said, "I'm still upset about it. I didn't want to lose my magic. I hoped I might have a little left after sacrificing that much." He clenched his fingers and made a frustrated noise. "I don't think I have _any _left."

"But you would still make the same choice, if you were in the same situation," Draco clarified.

Harry nodded. "No one made me be a hero. I controlled the interpretation of the prophecy, even the future's interpretation of itself. The words could mean different things, and all I did was twist them into what I wanted them to mean."

Draco stretched out beside him and rested his head on the pillow. "Will you tell me how?" he whispered. "I had no idea what you were doing, and I still don't really know what you _did_. I couldn't really see it in progress, after all. I'd like you to tell me what you were doing from the beginning, why you had to come up with that plan to combat the prophecy in the first place."

* * *

Harry rather suspiciously checked the color and dilation of Draco's pupils. But no, they looked normal. Draco went on gazing expectantly at him, but without the pity in his eyes Harry had expected.

Harry nodded slowly. "The prophecy promised that the one marked by fire would return to the fire," he said. "I'm sure a lot of my enemies were counting on that line meaning that I'd vanish from the world, and ceased to trouble them."

Draco laughed aloud and touched Harry's shoulder this time, stroking down to his chest. Harry relaxed. At least his lack of magic didn't seem to have inhibited Draco's desire to touch him, the way Harry had thought it would. "They should have taken a lesson from the Dark Lord," Draco whispered into his hair. "You never do what you're expected to. So that's why you created that illusion of you vanishing into midair, becoming part of the fire." He paused, and then added, not _exactly _in an accusing tone, "That part nearly killed me, you know. Watching you go like that and thinking you might have."

"I'm sorry," Harry said simply. "But that was the part I most had to conceal, believe it or not. If the prophecy had got any wind of that being an illusion, it would have crushed me. I had to make sure it was no longer paying attention to me, that it thought I had taken that power to other worlds the way it wanted."

"Is there any chance it can learn the truth?" Draco was stroking his hair now.

Harry leaned into it and closed his eyes. "I doubt it," he murmured. "Eventually, that magic would have to fade. I would have to die. And the fates that it showed me were—queer." That was the best word he could come up with for them, so it was the one he would use. "So. Sooner or later, I would have faded if I went that route anyway. I would have faded, yes, and I would have died. This way, the illusion should last long enough that the prophecy will have no desire to come back to our world and see if I'm still here. It's like the illusions of Lady Justice and the phoenix I created, and should endure until it's no longer needed."

More silence, more stroking. Then Draco said, "But you're not sure."

Harry opened one eye at him and snorted a little. "No. Considering that I've never done anything like this before, and no one else has that I could find references to in the books, either, I'm very much _not _sure. Am I allowed to be that way?"

Draco blinked and then flushed a bit. "Of course," he said. "I'm just not used to you not being sure."

Harry reached up and squeezed his fingers, silently grateful for the fact that Draco was still with him despite everything. "Yeah, I can see that. But anyway, I think I'm as sure as I can be. Even if the stag comes back, my magic is gone. There's no reason for it to think I kept it, which was apparently what it worried about."

"And the rest of the prophecy?"

Harry grinned a little. "_The one he trusted is the one who turns_," he quoted from memory. "That was the bit that gave me the most trouble, next to wondering how I was going to get the stag off my back. I lay awake at night and wondered who the traitor would be. Ron, for what he considered good reasons, such as maintaining the revolution? Someone like Pedlar? That seemed the safest option, the likeliest one too, but I couldn't be sure. Hermione, even? She was under the Imperius Curse for a while, you know."

Draco blinked. Then he said, "So who was it?"

"I realized," Harry said, and tried to put all the experience of discovering it in his voice, "that I was being ridiculous. If I could choose to manipulate the prophecy's words as I wished and make them mean what I _wanted_, I could do the same thing with the line about the traitor. Those were only the words in the prophecy, after all. And something happened that fulfilled them. Hermione came back to us."

It didn't take Draco long to work them out, and Harry watched him as his eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat. "It never said that _you_ would suffer the betrayal, did it?"

Harry smugly shook his head. "Nope. Not a bloody thing. Clearwater trusted Hermione, and so did I, and Hermione was the one who turned her back on Clearwater and escaped, after breaking free of the Imperius. So I took the risk, because something had happened that fulfilled the prophecy, and it wasn't a widely-known one, either. Hermione and I may have been the first ones who knew the full contents for more than a generation. I made it dance to my tune."

"The Dark Lord," Draco said. "Fate. Me."

Harry rolled up on one elbow to look at him. "What?" he asked.

"Things you conquered," Draco said, and put his hands on either side of Harry's face and kissed him.

Harry kissed back, letting his eyes fall shut in sheer appreciation of the fact that Draco was still here, with him, and able to kiss him, and willing to do so. He put his hand into Draco's hair, and tugged, and then tugged, more harshly, when Draco acted as if he would shift away from him.

"No," he breathed into his mouth. "Stay here, with me, a little longer. If I really _have _conquered you, then let me see what I won."

Draco laughed into his mouth, triumphant and soft and low, and then crushed Harry into the pillow. Harry went willingly, still nipping at Draco's lips and feeling his joy sweep through him the way his magic once had.

His life could still be beautiful without it, he thought. There were still compensations.

And when Draco undressed him with hot hands and eyes, and performed the spells that summoned the lube and helped to prepare himself for Harry, Harry was in the mood to think of it as far more than a _compensation._

* * *

"How can we trust you? You were with the revolution."

That was Clearwater's second-in-command, or at least the only one who had stepped forwards when Hermione had stepped up to the lines and called out that they'd arrested the Minister and she would appreciate someone who knew what she was doing. Judith Summers, who had taken Clearwater's place as Head Auror for at least a little while, Hermione knew, pushed her hair out of her eyes and then rubbed both eyes fiercely with the heels of her hands.

"Can you negotiate with us?" Hermione asked calmly. She glanced once over her shoulder, and found Ron behind her, Clearwater floating behind him in a shiny, almost-opaque cage of magical energy. She had taken one look at the eager eyes straining towards her and turned her back. Hermione didn't care. Frankly, it was preferable to another struggle to escape and cause trouble.

"I reckon so," Summers said. "But I can't _trust _you. You have the _Minister _there."

Her voice quivered, though, and when Hermione turned around quickly, she saw the hope in Summers's eyes before she could hide it. She was hoping, really hoping, that this was the end of the endless war, Hermione thought. And that meant she would be willing to speak with people she would have disdained speaking to before.

"But there are people here you can trust," Hermione murmured, and inclined her head towards Smithson and Raggleworth, who were standing where Clearwater had stood before she had attacked Ron, on the far side of the hill from the revolutionaries. They came forwards on cue, though they were both a bit white around the eyes. Hermione knew this was far from what they had originally planned when Harry was still alive—

_No. When he was _here. _Right here, with us. I'm going to believe he's still alive until I see the body. And I'm sure he'll find a way to contact us, no matter what happens._

She blew the distracting thoughts away and bowed to her allies as if she knew them only vaguely. "Madam…Raggleworth, of the Wizengamot?" she asked.

"Yes," Raggleworth said, in her haughtiest and most piercing tone, like a raven's voice heard through the clanging of steel. From the way her eyes shone, Hermione was sure she was enjoying herself immensely. She glanced about as though daring anyone to disapprove of what she was doing and bundle her out of the way.

"And Smithson, of the Hit Wizards," Smithson rumbled. He had a faint smile on his mouth, the only sign of _his _enjoyment. Hermione nodded gravely to them, and caught a glimpse of Greta smirking in the background. She didn't have a high enough status in the Ministry to join the negotiation, to just "happen" to be there and willing to trust, but she would enjoy the hell out of it anyway, Hermione was sure.

"Good." Hermione nodded to them both. "If you're willing to hear me, then I'm willing to listen to you, as well."

"This is impossible," Summers breathed. Hermione would have said she was on the verge of tears, except she had heard this kind of crackling hysteria before, and knew it could truly go either way. "You were _surrendering_. The Minister was here, beside me. And now you claim to arrest her? On what authority?"

"The authority that I hope Hit Wizard Smithson and Madam Raggleworth will take up, of course," Hermione said, and bowed again. She didn't mind bowing like that. Especially not when she thought Ron would probably scold her about it later, and she could argue the necessity, and it would give them another reason to yell at and then praise each other. "She used the Imperius Curse on me. I believe the Unforgivable Curses are still considered a crime in the new and brave Ministry? Although, of course," she had to add, "you no longer have Azkaban to place the offenders in."

"No, we don't," Summers said, and folded her arms. "That was another convenience your precious Potter deprived us of."

"Not _my_ Potter," Hermione said mildly. "My friend, yes, and I fought for him. But he's not here right now, and it's useless to hide behind him or pretend that he's here and you have to consider his magic. You saw him rise. And you saw what he did with his power." She didn't intend to mention the strange shower of sparks that had enveloped both her and Ron, or the flare of white she had seen after that, which seemed to involve Malfoy vanishing off the hill. Summers might not even know they'd happened, since she'd been on the wrong side of the hill to see anything. "He left us behind. We have to cope with the world as it is. So. Are you willing to accept that Minister Clearwater did something wrong?"

Summers glanced at Clearwater, then away. Sometimes her eyes strayed to the Aurors behind her, Hermione saw, as if hoping that one of them would step forwards and take her place. No one did, however, so in the end she gritted her teeth and responded. "I—yes. If you have the Pensieve memories to prove it," she added, with what was probably one more try at clearing her own side of wrongdoing.

"I will be _delighted _to contribute them," Hermione said. "That sensation of finding part of your mind enslaved isn't one you ever forget."

Summers whipped her head around. "Then you weren't completely enslaved," she said. "And the Minister must have suspected that something was wrong with you, that you were disloyal, and had some reason for casting the curse."

Raggleworth interrupted, which Hermione was grateful for, and not just because she had the voice to command the attention their cause needed at the moment. "There's no excuse for casting it, whatever she suspected," she creaked out. "Why not bring her suspicions in front of the Wizengamot? Why not order a legal arrest of Madam Granger-Weasley, as was her right? But she had _none _to enslave her."

Hermione smiled at Raggleworth. "Indeed. An arrest order would have been more to the point than casting the Imperius Curse." She turned back to Summers. "She then came after me and tried to kill me. My husband, _Auror _Ron Weasley, stopped her." Summers twitched a little but didn't try to refute the title, which Hermione considered progress. "Now—"

"_Reducto!_"

The Blasting Curse came from the side, from a small group of Aurors that Hermione hadn't paid attention to because they'd put down their wands and made no threatening moves. Now Desang dived out of the middle of them, wand aimed at her, and the Blasting Curse slammed into Hermione, tumbling her head over heels and fetching her up sharply against Raggleworth, who she knocked to the ground.

Dimly, she heard Ron roar, and raised her voice in a shout. "Ron, _no!_" If he killed or wounded Desang, it would damage their cause. The last thing she needed was her husband in a holding cell in the Ministry, when they still had only fragile authority over the rebels or Clearwater. This could be the signal that they all needed to overcome the awe Harry had left them in and decide that it didn't matter what public crimes Hermione accused Clearwater of.

Not that she thought Desang had planned that, or cared about the emotional tenor of the moment. She only wanted revenge, and had taken it at what looked to her like the first likely chance.

But, Hermione saw from the flushed state of her face as she charged, and the way she brandished her wand, and the way her mouth moved, she wasn't thinking clearly. At all. That meant Hermione could do as she liked with her. The more rational opponent in a contest like this was often the one who would win.

Hermione smiled.

Desang paused, but Hermione didn't intend to give her the chance to recover herself. She was bruised, not hurt, thanks to Raggleworth interrupting her tumble. She knew not to use violent spells, or sympathy would swing to Desang. But she could use a variant of the capture spells that had taken down Clearwater.

"_Incarcerous_," she said. "_Stupefy._" Spells Harry had taught the DA long ago, spells that even non-Aurors knew how to do, but which Aurors often seemed to forget.

Desang's stare as her arms got wrapped behind her back was comical, but faded into the usual open-mouthed imbecility that a Stunner caused as she crashed to the ground. Hermione snorted, Summoned her wand, and then turned and stared at the Aurors, including Summers, who were staring at her.

"I trust no one else is going to argue that some people in the Ministry didn't have it in for me, and wouldn't use illegal curses to take me down?" she asked quietly. "I came here to negotiate in a spirit of good faith. I don't appreciate attempts being made to assassinate me." Spin it that way from the beginning, and by the time Desang got to tell her side of the story, there would be fewer to believe her.

Raggleworth picked up the thread Hermione had started weaving immediately. "Of course not!" she said, voice deep and shocked. "One of _our _Aurors, one who is trained to recognize Dark wizards and capture them, assaulting a hero who fought back against the Imperius Curse on her mind! The idea! We will…"

And she talked on, and Smithson helped her, and now and then Greta interjected a comment, and together they wove the words that were needed at the moment. Hermione could step back and lean against Ron, who wrapped an arm around her waist and nuzzled her hair with his nose.

"Thank God that's over," he said.

Hermione nodded in silence. She could rely on Raggleworth and Smithson to make it seem the most natural thing in the world to accept the revolutionaries' surrender and get good terms out of it. The revolutionaries, still shocked and dazed from Harry's departure, and wanting back into normal society anyway, were unlikely to be a problem.

She and Ron could rest a bit.

_And then we can start searching for Harry._


	50. Getting On for Dark

Thank you again for all the reviews! And this, finally, is the end of this enormous, sodding bastard of a story. Thanks for reading all the way through.

_Chapter Fifty—Getting On For Dark_

Draco leaned back in his chair and watched his mother eat the soup he'd brought her that morning. His father remained in the bedroom of his parents' quarters with his door shut, but he might do that, after all. Draco wanted to watch the fragile expressions that bloomed on his mother's face when his father wasn't close by.

She finished the soup with a last, long suck out of the spoon that she once would have disdained to display, and flushed as she put it down beside the bowl. "I lost my manners in Azkaban," she whispered, drying her fingers on the napkin Draco handed her, and dabbing at her lips.

Draco smiled at her. "You still have peculiarly nice ones."

Narcissa hesitated and blinked. Then she said, "You could have abandoned us several times over, Draco. Why do you continue to come? Why did you have Potter bring us here, wherever we are?" She looked around at the walls as if she thought they would sprout a plaque naming their location.

Draco smiled still, but hoped that his mother couldn't see how fragile the smile felt, all of a sudden, or the way that his lungs seemed to tighten. He knew that their haven was somewhere on an island to the north of England, but no more than that. He wasn't entirely sure Harry hadn't _created _the island. Certainly, when Draco called one of the brooms that waited in a back room to him and soared too far above it, he passed through a tingling shield and looked down to see nothing in the water, so at the very least it was powerfully warded.

"You're still my parents," he said quietly. "And I think a large part of what's wrong with you is due to Azkaban. Imprisoning you again solves nothing. Letting you go would…solve something for Father, but it's much more likely to get you killed."

His mother laid her hand over his. "My heart shrinks within me," she said, toying with his fingers and not meeting his eyes, "when I think about what I did to you, how I chose your father over you."

"I know why you did," Draco said quietly. "And I know what it means. There were times when, in my heart, I chose Potter over you."

Narcissa looked up, the quick flash of her glance wounded for a moment. Then she leaned back in her chair and shook her head. "I'm being ridiculous," she said, "to let that hurt me. Of course you did. Why would you not, when you could not believe that your only family would stand by you?"

"We're in love," Draco said, telling her as he had tried to tell her before and knew she had not listened to. "I've never cared for someone like I care for him."

Narcissa nodded. "And we lost the right to object to what you did when we chose Azkaban and each other, Draco. I know. I'm not well, but I do understand what it means to sacrifice everything for someone." Her gaze strayed to the closed bedroom door, and the sound of her swallow was audible this time.

"I hope," she said then, words so soft Draco more felt than heard them, "the consequences of your sacrifice fall on you less heavily than mine did on me."

There was so little Draco could think of to say in return to that, and he knew most of it would be unwelcome. In the end, he squeezed her hand and went back to Harry…

Who was sitting with a letter on his lap, and a smile-frown on his face that Draco could read without words. Their silent, lonely time together was almost at an end.

* * *

_Dear Harry,_

_We know you probably had a good reason for disappearing. You had to convince everyone you were gone, or they'd continue to hound you. But now that the world is settling down again, won't you talk to us? I'll send you any news you want, to help you make the decision, so you and Malfoy can emerge from hiding._

_Hermione._

That was all she wrote, all she needed to write. The longing came through. Harry swept his fingers across the parchment, and then looked up as Draco paused in the door to their bedroom. He no longer had his magic that would link to Draco's heartbeat and let him know when Draco was upset or angry or in danger, but he had something that was almost as good, and that was his perception of Draco, his knowledge of his footsteps and his scent and the swish of his hair. That wasn't magical, except with the ordinary, everyday magic of living.

"From your friends?" Draco touched the parchment on Harry's lap and then leaned his head on Harry's shoulder, closing his eyes as if he would burrow his way into Harry's skin, or at least shut out all his knowledge of the world beyond their bodies.

"Yes." Harry kissed his forehead and looped his arm around Draco's shoulders, turning back to the letter. "Hermione says that they're safe—well, she doesn't say it, but she implies it—and she says she'll give us any news we need to know that we really can go back."

Draco said nothing. Harry touched the back of his neck and whispered, "What?"

"Now that the war's done and they don't have as much to worry about," Draco mumbled, then stayed there until Harry tapped him gently on the back of the neck again. Draco sighed, and finished. "They might reprimand us about the way we live. They might decide you should leave me."

"My friends aren't stupid," Harry said, and checked the way Draco tried to indignantly lift his head and defend himself. "No, I know you didn't say that. But you implied it with the way you made your statements. They know I love you, and if you think they might bully me into living in the Muggle world or being with someone else…" He shook his head, wordless, and tangled his fingers deeper in Draco's hair. "Who could I be with? You're the only one who cares for me the way you do, and the only one who knows I lost my magic and doesn't care."

Draco opened one eye then. "If your friends really are as good as you say they are, they won't care that you lost your magic."

"I know," Harry said, and tugged on one shiny wisp of hair, just to make Draco yelp. "But what I meant was, they don't know right _now._ You're the first one to have had the knowledge, and you accepted it. You didn't deny it, you didn't act as though you wanted to shove me away and find a wizard lover."

"If you knew what you mean to me…" Draco's arms tightened around him. "You're the only one I can conceive loving _me_."

"Don't talk nonsense," Harry said sharply, because he couldn't help himself. "Anyone who knows you would have to see how lovely you are."

"But the trouble is, will they know me in the first place? Will they bother?" Draco kissed him when he tried to protest, long and slow, and curled up mostly in his lap. "You're the only one for me. You can also say that I'm the only one for you, though personally I think that's less likely than the other way around. But let's not spend time pretending that we're going to leave each other. We're not."

Harry closed his eyes and leaned his head against Draco's. He still missed the surety and confidence that had been his when the fire was his, but…

But still. It was wonderful to be able to lean on them in someone else, no matter how unfamiliar.

* * *

_Dear Hermione:_

_As you must have been able to assume from the way your owl didn't come wandering back to you, lost and dazed, yes, I'm safe and alive. I'm with Draco and his parents, and I hope that, time willing, his parents can heal from their insanity or their brokenness or whatever it is they really suffer from._

_But there's something else you should know before you start sending me any sort of information. I don't think I'll ever be able to come back to the wizarding world and have it be the way it was before, and not just because I wanted to convince people that I'd left with the stag._

_I lost my magic._

_I used it to create powerful illusions that will plague people if they don't give Muggleborns fair trials or let pure-bloods off, but I don't know if any will ever come back to me. I've tried, and my wand feels like lifeless wood in my hands. Draco doesn't care. His parents won't get the chance. And I know that you and Ron will accept me. _

_But please, tell me about the things that you think might make it unsafe to come back when I don't have magic. I have the feeling the list is going to be long._

_Love,_

_Harry._

_Harry…_

_Harry, I'm so glad you're alive that it's difficult to say anything else right now. But first of all, of _course _Ron and I are glad to know you're alive. I think Ron took it harder than I did, because I remember living without magic and he doesn't, but I think you can have just as good and fulfilling a life as a Muggle as you can as a wizard._

_Just not in the wizarding world._

_Things are so tense here, even though our allies moved pretty rapidly to make sure some things went through. Clearwater was tried by the Wizengamot for casting the Imperius Curse on me, and found guilty. She'll go into holding cells until they build a prison to replace Azkaban—one that can never be as bad, particularly because Azkaban had special wards in the walls to make people feel subdued and depressed, and there's no one who remembers how to cast them now._

_Lady Justice and the phoenix are yours? That's great, Harry! Just the kind of thing that will make people uncomfortable about injustice without forcing them to do things, and making them uncomfortable is better than making them angry._

_So far, I think they're working. They've already followed one poor Auror that the Wizengamot tried to blame for the majority of the attacks and raids during the war, and it turns out that she was only doing things her superiors commanded her to do._

_For now, they've had Judith Summers step down as Head of the Aurors, and Kingsley is acting Head. They're preparing to hold elections, while the Ministry threw together a committee of people to act in the Minister's place. I'm sure it won't surprise you to know that a few of our allies are on it, notably Smithson and Greta. Well, Greta isn't really on it, but she serves the people on it, and that means she hears all the gossip and can tell us about potential hurtful things before they happen._

_They released the revolutionaries to return to their homes. I don't think they had any other choice, given that most of them claimed innocence and blamed everything on you. I wish they wouldn't, but most of them were overwhelmed when you took off, Harry. You don't know what it looked like from the outside._

_I don't know if you can come back at all. _

_But please let me know where you are. We want to visit you. And George has asked to visit, too. He says he has new and improved plans for an even better machine. I don't know what he means, but I'm sure you will._

_I'm so glad you're alive, Harry. We love you._

_Hermione._

* * *

George leaned back and stared at the machine in front of him. This one only had two loops, and they were both made of iron, not the shining mixture of metals that had powered Harry's machine. Then again, it only _needed _two loops.

_Yes, it does, _Fred's voice said from the back of his mind. _And it probably didn't need to be made at all, if you think about it._

"Shut it, you." George took a leisurely step back from the machine and used his wand to flip the sign on the joke shop to CLOSED. It wasn't a hardship to do that for a few hours, since they had few clients at this point in their post-revolution lives anyway. Most of the people who did come to them seemed to be the type who were courting the notoriety, and they backed away if George mentioned Fred. "We're going to test it."

_We don't have the ability to control large amounts of magic like Harry does—did. It's going to be hard to channel magic through this._

George ignored him, because he had expressed the same doubts while George was building the machine, and still hadn't managed to dissuade him from it. He stroked the wand a time or two, and then cast the first spell that would channel magic into the loops and make their invention do what it was supposed to.

The fireball that sprouted from the machine and scooped them up was magnificent, more than two floors high, orange with a heart of black, and absolutely silent. Up until the point where it burned through the roof and then dumped them back into the smoldering wreckage, at least.

George lay blinking in the middle of the shop, with splinters and embers raining down on his face. He could feel Fred smugly congratulating himself for his lack of a body in the back of his head.

"What—happened?" George whispered. He coughed.

_What indeed. I told you we couldn't control it._

George stumbled back to his feet and looked around the shop at the damage. Not that bad, actually. First, he would have to stop the fires that were burning around him before they got to some of the more expensive—and explosive—stock, but no, they had got away with less damage than they had any right to expect.

_Idiot._

"Next time, we'll ask Harry," George said. He and Ron and Hermione were supposed to go for a visit on Saturday.

_We will _not.

"Oh, so you want something like this to happen again?"

Bickering with his twin as he repaired the shop was an old and familiar pastime, and it made George smile. The revolution had given him that much, at least.

* * *

_From the _Daily Prophet:

_**NEW PRISON TO REPLACE AZKABAN?**_

…Acting Head of Aurors Kingsley Shacklebolt denied, this morning, the rumors that the Ministry will build a new prison to replace Azkaban. Of course, he wears only one hat, and who knows what is moving in the background? Only our sources, and we make the best attempt to get the news to you, our faithful readers.

"We do need something bigger than the holding cells to contain prisoners like former Minister Clearwater, that's plain," he said, standing outside the Ministry and wearing the polite yet harassed expression of a man who doesn't like your correspondent and thinks he can conceal it. "But we've decided against a whole separate prison. And certainly we won't have one as far from the wizarding world in general as Azkaban was. It made it too easy for abuses to take place there, and for dragons to attack it."

Asked whether they would employ Dementors as guards, the Head Auror's harassed expression increased.

"We've fought for things to _change_," he said. "And some of our colleagues who went over to the revolution left because things hadn't changed far or fast enough since the Battle of Hogwarts for them. It would be stupid to alienate them again by building a prison that would cost us a great deal of money, and could be destroyed again at any point in the building process."

He might have said more, but we caught a glimpse of the Phoenix then, and were reminded of some of the other problems with building a prison…

* * *

"Hullo, Harry."

Ron's voice was soft, Hermione noticed, and he cast one glance at Malfoy before he hugged Harry, as if to tell him not to get upset, it was only a hug. Malfoy watched them indulgently, only shaking his head when Harry looked at him in turn. Harry shrugged and grinned and hugged Ron back hard enough to make him wheeze, which Hermione knew was hard to do.

Then Harry stepped away from Ron and turned to her.

Hermione didn't think she could hold back her enthusiasm and her worry and her love, and she didn't try. She held Harry, and his eyes closed as though he was fighting back tears. Hermione knew that reaction. She laid her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes back. They stood there with their arms around each other, swaying.

Malfoy coughed and pulled them back to real life that way. "Would you like to see the inside of the building?"

It was a safe-_mansion_ that Harry had come up with, really, Hermione noticed as Harry and Malfoy escorted them through it. The walls and floors were stone that varied in color from black to red to tan, but always seemed to have a thread of flame or warmth running through it, somewhere, no matter where Hermione let her hand rest. The rooms had wide walls and furniture that more often resembled the furniture in the Gryffindor common room than it didn't, and shining pools of water here and there. The gardens were bright with branches of trees, and flowers, and singing birds.

"You made this?" Hermione asked quietly, dropping back so that she could walk with Harry.

Harry nodded. He looked at Malfoy most of the time, Hermione realized, even though his eyes and smile would quickly dart back to her or Ron. She wondered if he even realized it.

"With your magic," Hermione said.

Harry seemed to hear the question she wasn't asking. He glanced at Hermione and raised his eyebrows. "Yes," he said. "I was that powerful. You don't need to think I wasn't."

"But…you seem to be adjusting," Hermione said. "And losing all that power like that, all at once, can't have been easy."

Harry bowed his head for a moment, and they walked along in silence. Hermione watched him, and wondered. Harry finally sighed and turned his head so that he was speaking directly to her, and his voice was mostly obscured by Malfoy's pointing out some wonder ahead to Ron. Hermione didn't pretend to understand the friendship Ron and Malfoy shared, but then, she thought Ron didn't understand it himself either, most of the time.

"I mourn it every second," he said. "But I have too much in the world to keep me from drowning in the mourning. Draco. You. The house, and the chance of a quiet life now that no one else in the world knows where I am. Ron. George," he added, with a faint grin, because Ron and Hermione and George had all Apparated to the house once given the coordinates, but George had immediately gone to study the construction of the house's walls and hadn't bothered to greet Harry yet.

"I wish you could talk to someone," Hermione said.

Harry's face washed with a smile that was like looking at the first rays of dawn. "I have people to talk to. But anyway, no Muggle therapist would believe me, and no Mind-Healer from the wizarding world could be trusted with the truth." He reached out and patted Hermione's shoulder. "I promise, I do still know what it means to be happy."

And with that, Hermione _did _have to be content, since she knew Harry was at least so, and perhaps more than that.

* * *

"I know."

Draco froze beside Harry, staring into the distance. They sat on a pair of chairs outside the house, with the starry sky, gradually losing its sunset colors, looming ahead of them. Draco turned around and stared at Harry, cocking his head in wordless wonder.

Harry watched the sunset for another moment more, then looked back at him. His eyes were gentle, in a way that made Draco wince in spite of himself.

"I know you were a spy," Harry said quietly. "I always knew, I think. At the beginning, what other reason did you have to seek us out? But I announced my plans so openly, there was no way of telling it was you who was informing against me. It could have been someone else. And the most important things, like the machine and the dragons, I held too close to my chest to let anyone else know."

Draco shook his head. "But you're sitting there and taking it so much—better than I thought you would."

"Because I knew." Harry reached out and took his hand. Draco thought it unusually cold, but Harry didn't seem to think so, and anyway, Draco was probably still missing the warmth that came from sleeping beside Harry when he was still full of his flame. "I didn't think then that I would fall in love with you. But I did, and then you gave up the spying, and then you trusted yourself to me. Your pulling back from me or not trusting me enough to sleep with me, or to take care of your parents, would have been a much bigger betrayal."

Draco blinked, and struggled, and finally said, "I know you're not mad—among other things, I don't think you ever really were, and the magic's gone now—but that sounds mad, you know."

"As if I care what other people consider sane," Harry murmured, and pulled so that Draco stumbled from his chair into Harry's, and into Harry's lap. Sometimes his Auror training could take the place of magic. Harry kissed him, and Draco sucked greedily at the living warmth that wasn't fire in his mouth.

Harry pulled back, stroking his fingers through Draco's hair, and Draco tried to keep his eyes open through the feeling that caused him, which was hard. He struggled to stay attentive, and Harry gave him a little shake and a hum.

"I'll only say this once," Harry whispered, "so pay attention."

Draco nodded, although his eyes promptly tried to fall shut again. Harry hissed, and Draco blinked and focused on him.

"This," Harry said, and gestured at the house behind them. "That." He reached out to the sunset. "You." He touched Draco above the heart. "All of these—you aren't second best."

Draco swallowed. He could have asked Harry to elaborate, but he didn't need to. He touched Harry's knee instead, and then his throat, and then drew his wand and trailed it along his chest.

Harry didn't fear him. Harry smiled at him, and held no grudges, and not just endured but lived after the loss of his magic, and no one but Harry could have done that. Draco had thought he had fallen in love with Harry for his power, but no one else could have kept Draco loving him when the power was gone.

Harry leaned in and breathed gently on his ear, then whispered, "_I chose this. _And that makes this, all by itself, loads better than the fate the stag would have given me or that the Ministry planned for me."

And Draco leaned forwards and kissed him again, and Harry was bright and warm enough against him with no trace of magic, and behind them, the darkness came in.

b**The End./b**


End file.
